


An Inconvenient King

by BlueCichlid, Sarah_Black



Series: An Inconvenient King [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon - TV, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Letters, Long, Lots of plot, Past Rape/Non-con, Plot, Resurrection, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 89,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/pseuds/Sarah_Black
Summary: Stannis Baratheon is resurrected by Melisandre and brought to Winterfell by Sandor Clegane. Sansa’s life will never be the same, and neither will the Game of Thrones. But who will win, and what will be lost, remains to be seen.





	1. The Return of the King

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the show!verse. It begins several weeks after the end of season six. It will be a plot-intensive story with a number of twists and turns, and at this point we are planning at least one sequel. Tags and warnings may be updated as the story progresses. 
> 
> Regarding pairings, Sarah is a Stannis/Sansa shipper, and BlueCichlid multi-ships. We’ve included tags that we feel reflect the content of the story. It will likely not be of interest to anyone who ships Sansan exclusively. Their relationship is an important part of the story, but only one of several romantic/sexual/UST pairings. We have also included a Petyr/Sansa tag as their relationship is also an important component of the plot. We do not intend to sugar-coat or romanticise Littlefinger. That said, we do not want to spoil the story by defining the exact nature of the relationships between the characters, which is something that will change as the story progresses.
> 
> Big thank you to Tommyginger for helping with the story and being a wonderful cheerleader!

Sansa was dressed and ready to start her day, but instead of leaving to break her fast in the Great Hall, she was standing still in her chambers, looking at her surroundings. She had so many responsibilities now that she was the Lady of Winterfell, and she rarely had moments where she could just… breathe.

It was strange to think of these chambers - her father’s chambers - as her own. The objects that had survived the Greyjoys and the Boltons were useful, sturdy, and built for comfort rather than beauty. Even though it wasn’t what it once was, there was still so much about this relatively humble room that reminded her of the man Lord Eddard Stark had been. There was a tapestry that depicted an old heart tree. It always made Sansa think of the way her father had used to sit in the godswood when he wanted to think about something important. A chest full of blankets had wafted her father’s scent to her nose: leather, horses, and oak. On her third night sleeping in the chamber, she had unearthed a tarnished silver box that contained scissors and a shaving knife. Sansa couldn’t recall her father ever having less than a full beard, but she supposed he must have trimmed it. She could still remember the way his beard tickled her neck when he had hugged her...

Today would be a good day, she decided, as she walked toward the door. She was home, she was safe, and she was becoming stronger every day. She felt that not only her body, but her heart, too, was recovering. 

Feeding Ramsay to his hounds had not been something she had done lightly, but it had been the first step towards healing her injured spirit. How many times had she survived an encounter with Ramsay by swearing over and over to herself that she would have justice? 

She wondered whether her father would have agreed with her idea of justice. Would he have considered it unnecessarily cruel, or would he have understood the depth of Sansa’s suffering and understood that such a brutal death had been more than deserved? Sometimes Sansa felt convinced that her father would have accepted her choice, but at other times her stomach contracted and twisted about within her as she imagined his disappointment. Would he have advocated a quick, clean death despite everything?

 _Jon understands,_ Sansa reminded herself. _And Jon is very like Father. Perhaps I can hope that Father would understand, too._

When Sansa left her chambers, she found herself wishing she could break her fast with Jon. She had done so since the Battle of Winterfell, but that was no longer possible. Jon was gone. He had left for the Wall with nearly all the men, leaving only enough fighters to garrison the keep. Sansa was alone here. 

_No, not alone. Never alone. Petyr is here. Petyr is always here._

She wished she could send him away, but … despite all that had happened, Petyr remained her strongest ally. _He understands the Game in a way no one else here does. There is much I have to learn. He could teach me. But at what price?_ She knew he wanted to take Jon’s place in her life, eat meals with her, hear her confidences...

 _I wish I didn’t need him. That I could just send him away, and give him no more thought. He has stolen too much from me._ She thought of Ramsey, and shivered. _No, I will not see Littlefinger today._

Sansa had barely taken two steps from her door when a young boy ran up to her. He tried to speak right away, but he was so out of breath that Sansa did not understand him.

“Please catch your breath, I am in no hurry,” she told him, smiling kindly. She knew that the boy had important news, but a few more seconds would not make all the difference in the world, and this way she had time to steel herself in case the news were bad.

The boy bent over double and panted, but eventually he seemed ready to speak.

“Two men have just arrived. They are outside the gates and asking to be admitted. One of them - a southerner - claims to know you. The other is very injured.”

Sansa was careful not to betray her surprise. She kept her face impassive and nodded at the boy. “Thank you.”

Her heart beat quickly as she made her way to the battlements. She needed to see this southern man who claimed to know her. She had to determine whether he was a friend or an enemy, and she must do it with poise. Everyone would be watching her.

Sansa felt her heart constrict and her stomach flutter when she saw the man outside the gates.

 _Sandor Clegane._

The moment she had relived in her nightmares too many times to count played in her memory like a song, and she could almost feel the way Sandor’s strong arms had lifted her up from the ground after he had fought off her would-be rapers, and the way his shoulder had been digging into her stomach as he carried her back to her Lannister captors.

Her heart hammered in her chest as her mind filled with questions. How would he behave towards her now? Was he a friend or a foe? What was he doing in the north? Why was he _here?_

“Finally,” he shouted when he saw her. “Will you tell those fuckers to open the gates, little bird? This one needs to warm up before he starts pissing ice.”

 _Uncouth as ever,_ Sansa thought, with a mental sniff. She took her time to survey the two supplicants from her walls. She had barely registered the injured man on the sled. Now she saw he was in bad shape. She did not know him, but he was not in Bolton colours, so she was inclined to be merciful. Still, she needed to assert herself. Her people were watching.

“Kindly address me by my proper title, Master Clegane. I am Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Will you open the bloody gate, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell?”

“Are you still loyal to the Lannisters?” Sansa asked, mostly for the benefit of those around her. The last time she had seen the Hound he had been fleeing King’s Landing in the midst of a terrible battle. The Lannisters would probably kill him on sight for desertion. 

“I am loyal to no one but myself,” Sandor said. He spat at the frozen ground and glared up at her.

“What about your companion?” she asked, wondering if Sandor even knew who the injured man was.

“He’s not loyal to the Lannisters any more than you are. He’s Stannis bloody Baratheon. Now will you let us in? It’s fucking cold.”

Sansa drew in a sharp breath. _Stannis Baratheon. What does this mean?_ The implications were staggering. 

She nodded at the men around her, and they hurried to open the gates. The boy who had found her was still by her side. “Please go and find Lord Baelish,” she told him. She took a breath. “I need him.”

***

“It’s definitely him,” Petyr said, looking at the injured man - Stannis Baratheon - in disbelief.

There was a pause while Sansa, Petyr, and Sandor all looked at each other and then back down at Stannis. 

Sansa broke the silence. “Lady Brienne said she killed him,” she said, shaking her head and furrowing her brow. “How can this be?”

“I told you,” Sandor said in his gruff voice, impatience in every syllable. “The red cunt said the Lord of Light brought him back. She told me she found him near perfectly preserved in the ice and snow. The Lord of Light led her to him and gave her a sign, she said.”

“How did she do it?” Petyr asked, eyes practically glowing.

“Wasn’t he beheaded?” Sansa added, morbidly fascinated despite herself. She could not see any stitches on Stannis’ neck. It appeared as if his head had always been right where it was. 

Sandor looked away. “How should I know? I didn’t see it happen, did I?” 

Sansa looked at him. There was something he didn’t want to talk about, she knew that. 

“Sandor,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “What can you tell us?”

There was a long pause. “I was coming north,” he said finally. “I saw the smoke all the way from the road. Decided to see what was going on. Thought it might be trouble. I found her in a clearing, standing over him. She said her god had sent me. Told me to take him to the castle. She ... had ringed herself in fires.” His breath was short. “It was like the woman was made of fire herself.” He dropped his gaze and swallowed hard. “I didn’t stay to ask questions.”

Sansa kept her face passive, but her heart ached for Sandor. She knew the story behind his scars; Petyr had told her. 

_What courage it must have taken for him to go to that smoke, and then to walk into the circle of fire and take Stannis out._

“I’m surprised, Clegane,” Petyr said, his voice smooth. “You had no love for Stannis, as I recall.”

Sandor looked away. “I had my reasons. Besides, someone had to help the fucker.”

“Melisandre was banished from the north, and for a good reason,” Sansa said. “She convinced King Stannis to burn his own daughter. She is a murderer.”

“Shireen?” Sandor’s voice was soft, horrified. “Sounds to me like Stannis is the murderer,” he muttered. “True that I never liked the man much, but I woundn’t’ve thought that of him.” He glared down at the comatose man. “Bloody waste of effort.”

Sansa kept her voice gentle. “He can answer for his deeds when he wakes up, but you did right to save him and bring him to us.” 

“If he wakes up,” Littlefinger said, his voice cool.

Sansa felt herself stiffen. _Was he suggesting … ?_

He met her eyes, and one brow lifted. 

Sansa’s mind raced. Stannis Baratheon was the rightful king of Westeros. Cersei had not given King Robert any trueborn heirs, and Sansa had heard tell that many lords were disinclined to support young King Tommen’s claim now that his formidable grandfather was dead. Stannis was Robert’s younger brother. Robert’s only living brother, now. Jon was King in the North, but ... surely the rest of Westeros still needed a king?

Sansa wondered what her father would have done about this. Or rather, what he had done. She had understood so little of the politics of the court before … before it all went wrong. She knew her father had not supported Joffrey’s claim, nor that of his siblings. He always tried to do the right thing and tell the truth. The only lie Sansa had ever heard him utter had been the lie she had wanted him to tell. 

It hadn’t been enough to save him from Joffrey.

Had her father supported Stannis’ claim? _He must have._ And at what cost? 

“I think you’ll want him to wake up,” Sandor said, frowning as if he wasn’t exactly pleased with his own words. “He’s a clever cunt. Good to have on your side in a fight.”

Sansa aimed a halfhearted glare at Sandor for his profanity and pushed her painful memories aside. She looked down at the thin bearded man she had heard so much about but never seen. Twice she had stood inside castle walls as Stannis attacked outside, and twice she had wondered what would befall her if he succeeded. 

_Gods…_ If only Stannis had triumphed when he had tried to take King’s Landing. How much pain might she have avoided? How much death might have been prevented?

_Robb might still be alive._

_Mother._

“He will be given the finest care we can provide,” Sansa said, meeting Littlefinger’s eyes steadily. “He deserves no less.”

“Of course, my lady.” He did not look best pleased. Sansa knew what he was thinking. 

_Every time I'm faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me on the Iron Throne and you by my side._

Sansa’s stomach tied itself into knots whenever she thought about those words.

It didn’t seem like there was anything Littlefinger could do to get himself on the throne. He wasn’t anywhere in the line of succession, and even with the strength of the Vale at his back, winning the throne through conquest was more likely to put a crown on Sweetrobin’s head than Littlefinger’s. She couldn’t see what he might be planning, and it filled her with unease.

“Well, now that’s settled,” Sandor said, sounding irritated, “is there somewhere in this castle where I could get something to eat?”

Sansa fought the impulse to shoot him a glare. “Follow me,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant, “we can discuss how you’re going to make yourself useful on the way.”

Sandor grunted and scowled, but there was something in his eyes that told Sansa he was not opposed to the idea of being useful.

Littlefinger made himself likely to linger in the chambers where Stannis had been put to bed, and that simply wouldn’t do. Might he simply murder Stannis in his sleep? 

“Petyr, won’t you join us? I would enjoy your company as I break my fast.”

It was as if all thoughts of smothering Stannis with a pillow left Petyr’s head. Littlefinger faded away, leaving Petyr’s eyes a little greener, his face a little softer. “As you wish, my lady.”


	2. Break Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BlueCichlid and Sarah are overwhelmed with all the positive reactions to this story! This story will be posted pretty rapidly, but this chapter is going up extra early. You can expect updates every three days or so (hopefully!), but Blue and Sarah live in completely different time zones so this is subject to change.

Sansa could not help but feel decidedly odd about marching through Winterfell with Sandor and Petyr flanking her. The north did not quite seem the right place for them, and their presence here was bringing back memories of being helpless and trapped in the south. She didn’t like it. She was tired of feeling helpless; she needed to be strong now.

“Sandor Clegane,” she began, “how have you been faring?”

As they walked, Sansa used the opportunity Sandor’s proximity was affording her to take a proper look at him. He was as large, scarred, and frightening as ever, but she found herself less intimidated by him than she had always been in King’s Landing. Ramsay had not been huge or scarred, but he had been so much worse than the Hound had ever been.

How strange that the look of a man could be so misleading.

There was something different about Sandor, however. There had always been such a restless energy about him, so much anger and hate in his eyes. Some of that had been soothed, it seemed to her. She wondered who had soothed him.

“Still chirping your pleasantries, little bird?” Sandor asked in his gruff voice.

Sansa didn’t like it when he called her little bird. She was no longer the prisoner of war she had been when he had known her. She had suffered so much since then -- grown so much. She pressed her lips together but resisted the urge to frown.

“You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to,” she said smoothly.

“You want to know how I’ve been faring’? Fine. I’ll tell you. I nearly got murdered trying to get your sister to a family member that might be able to pay me a decent price for her.”

Petyr made a soft exclamation of surprise. His eyes were bright with curiosity.

Sansa sent him a warning glance. He smiled, nodded acknowledgement that she would handle this, and remained silent. 

Sandor carried on, after giving Petyr a sharp, suspicious glance. “A septon found me, got me on my feet, gave me construction work to do and food to eat. Then he got murdered. I hanged the bastards that did it, came north, ended up running into the red cunt and her friend the half dead clump of ice, and now I’m here.”

“You were with Arya?” Sansa asked. She had wondered if Sandor was the man Brienne had spoken of, but she hadn’t dared to hope. _Arya would have been safe with him._

“For a while. She left me for dead, the vicious little beast,” Sandor grunted. He didn’t seem all that upset about it.

“Have you any idea where she might be now?” Sansa knew voice was rising in pitch. _Arya. Arya could be alive._ Her heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn’t control her reaction, but she was uncomfortably aware that she was at risk of losing her composure in front of both Petyr and Sandor.

“No,” Sandor said. “She ran off.”

Sansa bit her lip. Was there a chance Arya could have survived on her own? Without Sandor or Brienne to look out for her? She forced herself to be calm. There was nothing she could do for Arya at the moment. She needed to be strong like her mother. She needed to be the Lady of Winterfell.

“Did I hear you correctly,” Sansa said, taking even breaths and forcing herself with great difficulty to be practical rather than emotional, “are you an experienced construction worker?”

“Aye.”

“Winter has come,” Sansa said, recalling the day the white raven had arrived. The conversation on the battlements -- arguing about who would sleep where...

_By the gods, but I miss Jon._

She took a deep breath and tried to stop thinking about her brother. 

“The Greyjoys and the Boltons left the castle in poor shape. There is much work to be done if we wish to survive the coming storms," she said, her voice steady.

“Oh?” Sandor was frowning, his eyes trained on her. “You want me to work for you?”

Sansa felt her face become warm. Something in Sandor’s tone put her off balance. “Your assistance would be appreciated, but if you do not wish to work with the builders, you might consider going to the Wall,” Sansa said. Perhaps that would be best. It was… unsettling… to have him near, and Sandor was a powerful warrior. She remembered the strength of those arms as he hoised her over his shoulder, his skill in wielding the blade. “My brother Jon is fighting a war there. He needs good fighters.”

“A war?” Sandor scoffed, “what war?”

“A war against the white walkers,” Petyr piped up, sounding faintly amused, like he always did when the white walkers were brought up. 

Sandor glanced at Petyr and then back at her. “That true?”

“It is,” Sansa said, with as much dignity as she could muster. If Jon said the white walkers were real, she believed him. 

_We have to trust each other. We have so many enemies now._

Sandor grunted and lapsed into silence. He seemed to be thinking, so Sansa didn’t say anything.

They arrived in the Great Hall, cavernous and almost empty now that most of the men that had been crowding it during mealtimes had left the castle. Sansa headed straight for the raised platform, affording Sandor a great honour by allowing him to sit with her and Petyr as they ate. Servants brought them simple food: black bread, cheese, and boiled eggs. But there was also a single lemon cake. Somehow there was always a lemon cake for Sansa at breakfast. She always felt a surge of warmth when she saw it, as she knew Jon must have instructed the kitchen staff to do this. She certainly hadn’t.

“I could do with some chicken,” Sandor groused.

Sansa smiled at him and then moved her head to catch the eye of the servant who had just brought them the food. “Could you please go to the kitchens and see if there is any chicken?” she asked.

“And ale,” Sandor added.

“And ale,” Sansa said to the servant.

“Ale for breakfast, Ser Clegane?” Petyr said, raising an eyebrow.

Sansa shot him a warning look. “Sandor has had a difficult journey, I’m sure. If he wants ale we can oblige him.”

“I’m no knight, Littlefinger. The little bird can tell you that, if you’ve forgotten. You can leave off with the sers.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “I would have you stop referring to me as a little bird. I am Lady Stark of Winterfell.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow. His scarred face looked even less symmetrical that way. He grunted and nodded slowly.

They ate in silence until the servant reappeared with a cold bit of chicken and a flagon of ale. Sandor almost smiled at the sight of the food and drink, and Sansa could tell that he was pleased.

“Sweetling, I was hoping for a private audience with you today,” Petyr murmured. 

Sandor paused in between bites of chicken. 

_Must I remind everyone of my title every time I speak? _Sansa thought to herself, staring down at her plate and pursing her lips.__

“I have received a number of dispatches from my agents in the south. There is nothing urgent, but there are many matters I would like to tell you about. There have been interesting developments in the Iron Islands, and in the Capital you should know about.” 

Part of her wanted to send Petyr away and never see him again. _You sold me to Ramsey. I trusted you, and you sold me. And your games -- I am so tired of your games._ Part of her wanted to keep him close, to watch him and to learn from him. _You know so much about the Game that shapes all our lives. I want to know what you are planning._ And part of her wanted to collapse into his arms. _You took me from King’s Landing when no-one else would. I want to believe that you never intended me harm, that it was just a mistake, just one mistake. I want to believe that you do not wish me harm. I have known so many who do._

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said, “I will stay with our injured guest today, and see to his needs.” Stannis Baratheon was a convenient excuse. She would take her needlework to his room and make sure he was being cared for. 

Petyr frowned, but he nodded nonetheless. 

Sansa would have sighed with relief, but that would not have gone unnoticed, so she just kept a frozen smile on her face. 

Oddly enough, Sandor smiled, too. It wasn’t a very _pleasant_ smile, however, and he was directing it at Petyr rather than her. He stared at Littlefinger, and snapped the bone of the chicken leg with relish. 

Petyr narrowed his eyes at Sandor and turned to his own plate. With the refined manners befitting a lord of his station, he elegantly arranged two eggs and a long, thick slice of bread in a very peculiar way on his plate. Sansa tried to tilt her head discreetly in an attempt to make sense of what he was doing, but right as she thought she had understood it, Petyr used a fork to crush first one of his boiled eggs, and then the other. He looked at Sandor the whole time, and Sansa noticed that Sandor’s disturbing smile had faded. Sandor had also stopped chopping his chicken into bits. Now he was picking the largest bone on his plate up and bringing to his mouth, biting viciously at the meat and _glaring_ at Petyr. Petyr just smirked and cut his slice of bread in half with a flourish. 

_I hate men._

Not really wishing to see what Sandor would do next, Sansa rose from the table. 

Both men stopped glaring at each other in order to look at her with identical expressions of surprise. 

“I must go,” she said. “Please excuse me.” 

“Why?” Sandor asked crossly, frowning at both her and Petyr. 

“So soon?” Petyr submitted. “You’ve barely eaten.” 

“I have an injured guest,” Sansa said, grateful for the excuse Stannis provided. 

Sandor nodded, but didn’t seem very happy. Petyr was pursing his lips. 

“I’ll see you both later,” Sansa said, inclining her head. They both returned the gesture, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile inwardly at how differently it was possible to perform such a minor movement. Petyr’s nod had been formal, controlled and graceful. Meanwhile, Sandor jerked his head roughly, the movement quick and sharp. 

As Sansa walked away, she caught the eye of a servant. The young woman was clearly suppressing a look of amusement, but she composed herself quickly and curtseyed. 

“Watch them,” Sansa whispered. She didn’t want to return from Stannis’ chambers to find that Sandor had murdered Petyr. 

It would be incredibly awkward. 


	3. Awakening

Stannis’s chamber was still and quiet. Someone had removed most of his clothing and piled several furs around him in an effort to keep him warm, but his skin still looked pale as death. 

She would need to send a raven to the Wall and inform Jon of this development. And hadn’t Lord Davos been Stannis’ Hand? He would need to be notified, too. Sansa frowned at the idea of Davos returning to Winterfell. She did not precisely dislike the man, but she did not precisely like him, either. He had never truly treated her with much regard. 

“But I suppose you will want your Hand near?” she said aloud, keeping her voice low.

Stannis did not answer. He was quite unconscious.

Curious about this man she had heard so much about, Sansa examined his face. His eyes looked sunken, there was a very deep crease between his brows, and he was thin. Too thin. His skin was stretched over the bone in a way that made the shape of his skull all too obvious. The hair was nearly all grey, though she could see here and there how it must have been darker once. His beard was full and thick, and reminding her of more of a northman than a southron lord. 

His scrawny appearance was, overall, a bit of a disappointment. 

She sighed. “What are we going to do with you?” she said to herself. “Your return is a ... complication.”

It did not seem very likely that Stannis would approve of Jon being King in the North. That could lead to conflict. He had no army and no heir, not at present, but he still had his name and his claim to the throne of Westeros. He might become a threat, in time.

Perhaps Littlefinger was right. Perhaps it would be best if Stannis didn’t wake up.

“You should build a fire in here.”

Sansa started and turned around. How had Sandor managed to sneak up on her like this? How could such a big man move so silently?

“Pardon?” She was stalling and willing her frantic heart to quiet down. She felt like the thoughts that had been in her mind a heartbeat ago were writ plain on her face. 

Such thoughts seemed sensible when she was thinking of Littlefinger, but with Sandor’s eyes on her, Sansa suddenly felt ashamed. 

“You should build a fire. He needs to get warm. That’s what the red cunt said.”

“Her name is Melisandre,” Sansa said, disliking Sandor’s profanity. She had heard worse, but she did not want to be reminded of way Ramsay would sometimes speak to her. She wanted things to be like they had been when her lady mother had ruled Winterfell along with her father. Everything had been so proper then. There had been order and peace. 

Sansa wanted order and peace more than she wanted anything else in the world.

“Does it look like I care?” Sandor said.

Sansa looked at him for a long moment, meeting his eyes and waiting for him to understand that he should care. He should care because she cared, and she was the lady of the castle he was currently staying in. He was her _guest._

And… she had thought… hadn’t he cared for _her_ once?

Her heart beat a little harder, and she felt her face flushing.

Sandor cleared his throat and looked away. “You should get him warm. If you’re fighting a war you’re going to want him around. I don’t know if you remember the Battle of Blackwater -”

“I do,” Sansa interjected. She would never forget it.

“Well, I know I left in the middle of it, but I know what happened. This fucker nearly took the city despite the fact that Tyrion Lannister used wildfire to burn most of his ships.” Sandor swallowed hard, but continued. “If Tywin Lannister and the Tyrells hadn’t shown up at the last sodding minute things might have turned out very differently.” 

“I know,” Sansa whispered. She had agonised over what might have been if Tywin Lannister and his army hadn’t turned up.

“Well. I’m just saying… you might want to have a man like that around if you’re trying to fight a war.”

“Jon is fighting a war. Not I.” 

Sansa didn’t want to fight anymore. She wanted to stay in Winterfell and continue to heal. She wanted Jon to come back and help her rebuild. One day, when she was ready, she wanted to get married to a man like her father had promised her; someone brave, gentle and strong. She wanted to give birth sons and daughters and watch them continue her work of making the north what it had been when her father ruled it. She did not want to be Littlefinger’s queen, or anyone’s queen at all. All she wanted was peace.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “Fine. Jon’s fighting the bloody war. All I’m saying is that I dragged this one’s bony arse over a lot of ice and snow to get him here. Light a fucking fire.”

Sansa watched as Sandor stomped out. He didn’t close the door behind him, and soon a maid appeared, giving her a concerned look.

“Could you light a fire in the hearth, please?” Sansa asked.

“But the walls are warm, milady,” the maid said, looking confused.

Sansa knew that firewood was usually conserved and not used to heat rooms unless it became very _very_ cold outside, but Sandor was probably right. The heat in the walls was not enough. _Melisandre had ringed him with fire._ Sansa wondered if she would ever understand what had happened in that clearing. 

“I know, please light a fire as well. Our guest needs to get properly warm.”

“Yes, milady.”

As the maid worked, Sansa studied Stannis. _A king returned from an icy grave by the power of the gods. For what purpose?_

But there were no answers. 

Sansa settled in a corner of the guest chamber and turned to her latest sewing project. She was embroidering a shirt for Jon - a direwolf design because he always liked ‘the wolf bits’ - and she hoped she would be able to send it to him soon. Her needlework was quick and sure, and soon she was lost in her work. 

It was blessedly quiet here, away from the questions raised by her guests, new and old. 

Much of the morning was gone when she rose to check on her guest.

“Still sleeping?” she murmured as she adjusted the pillow Stannis was resting on.

No answer.

She continued to adjust the pillows and furs around the sleeping king, touching his hands to make sure his extremities weren’t still cold, and then moving down to his feet and checking his toes.

“Get off, woman.”

Sansa dropped Stannis’ foot and took a large step back from the bed, her heart pounding so hard in her chest that she could hardly hear anything else.

_Breathe, Sansa. Just breathe. Stannis won’t hurt you._

“You’re awake then, Your Grace?” She spoke mostly to acknowledge his title and to put him at ease. She did her best to keep her voice steady and soothing, but there was a small nervous tremor that she could not hide.

“Where am I? Who are you?” Stannis was looking around his chambers with his eyes narrowed, suspicion in every line of his face. He tried to lift himself up, but seemed unable to support himself. This caused a deep furrow to appear between his brows, and something akin to panic to appear in his eyes.

Sansa could see that this was not a man who was used to fear and confusion.

She drew herself up to her full height and squared her shoulders. “I am Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“Stark?” Stannis’s voice was hoarse. “Lady Sark?” His brow was still furrowed, and he seemed to be straining his memory or else thinking very hard. He tried to get up on his elbows again, but failed. “I am in Winterfell? Inside the castle?”

Sansa walked towards a table where a jug of water and a cup had been left for him. She poured and returned to the bed with a cup in hand. “You are in my keep and in my care.”

“Your Keep? I thought you were Lady Bolton now?” he asked, examining her closely. His lips twisted in scorn. “Am I a prisoner?”

Sansa felt her face freeze into a cold mask. “No, your grace. This is a Stark castle again, and I am Lady Stark. You are an honoured guest.” 

“Traded the Bolton name away when it was no longer useful, did you?” He reached for the cup.

Sansa opened her hand and let the cup fall to the floor. The water splashed onto the floor. “Please forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, her voice icy. “How clumsy of me.”

She could see Stannis’ jaw working. He clearly knew that she had not dropped the cup by accident. His eyes told her that he was rapidly figuring out that if he wanted to be cared for he needed to _never_ refer to her as a Bolton again.

“Fine. Lady Stark.” His brow was still furrowed and he looked most grievously displeased, but he had called her by her chosen name. Her true name.

She picked the cup up from the floor and refilled it. This time she managed to deliver it to Stannis’ hands without dropping it.

He drank eagerly, not taking his eyes off her the entire time.

She filled his cup again.

He accepted it, but did not drink.

“Where is Melisandre?” he asked, his voice slightly less raspy than before.

“She has been banished from the north,” Sansa told him, clasping her hands in front of her.

“By whom? You?” He sounded angry.

“By the King in the North,” Sansa answered, meeting his angry eyes without fear. “By my brother, Jon Snow.”

“The last I heard he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Did Melisandre not tell you anything of what has happened since you…” Sansa trailed off. Did Stannis know that he had been dead?

“Since I was executed by one of my younger brother’s foolish supporters? No. She did not.” There was no humour in the way Stannis spoke the words, but there was something so dry about his delivery that Sansa had to suppress an absurd feeling of mirth. At the same time there was something about his eyes that made it impossible to laugh. There was a distant, hard, and bone-weary look about them. 

_A dead look,_ Sansa thought, and shivered.

“Well, in summary,” she said, searching for the right words, “my brother was murdered at the Wall by his own men, Melisandre brought him back to life. His death freed him from his vows to the Night’s Watch. I escaped the clutches of my... _husband_ and found Jon at the Wall. Together we gathered an army and defeated the Boltons in a battle where thousands lost their lives. Jon was chosen to be King in the North, and now my brother has gone back to the Wall with all the men he could find in order to fight the white walkers.”

Stannis blinked at her, taking it all in. “Is that all?” he asked, closing his eyes for a moment. She was not sure she had ever seen anyone look quite as exhausted.

“I fed Ramsay to his own hounds. He had been starving them, and intended to set them loose on my brother and your Hand, among others.”

Stannis went very still at those words. He had been looking at her like men always looked at her. Like she was no one of very much importance, good enough to bleed and breed, but not a threat. Not anyone to be reckoned with.

He wasn’t looking at her like that anymore. Sansa found she liked the change. _He knows I am to be reckoned with._

“You murdered your husband in cold blood,” Stannis stated, his tone accusing.

“And you murdered your own daughter. I doubt you had the reasons I had. Do you wish me to tell you?”

Stannis closed his eyes and his corpse-white skin became somehow even paler. “No. I was told of your husband’s reputation.”

Sansa’s nodded slowly, wondering how much Stannis had been told. This was not the time to find out, however. She needed to know what manner of man had come back from the dead, what she might have allowed to come into her castle. 

“I would ask, in turn, why you agreed to allow Melisandre to burn your daughter.”

Stannis glared at her, but she met his eyes steadily. 

“We were freezing to death and starving,” Stannis finally muttered. “My men were dying. Without my army all would have been lost.”

“Without your heir your legacy was lost. Even if you had triumphed it would have been a hollow victory. And she was your daughter. Your own daughter.”

“I - the Red Woman…” Stannis squeezed his eyes shut and appeared to be in pain.

“Tell me the truth, Your Grace.” _And your life may depend on the answer._

He was quiet for a long time. Sansa had started to wonder if he would answer her at all, when he finally spoke. 

“Do you know what it’s like to starve?” His voice was low and harsh.

“Not truly,” Sansa said. She had not eaten very well on the road from Winterfell to the Wall, but Brienne and Pod had always made sure she had _something._ She hadn’t wanted them to give her more than her share, but they had insisted, and she had always eventually taken what they had offered. She was not used to hunger.

“I have. It is not the sort of torture your husband was known for, but starvation strips away a man’s humanity sure as any other form of torment, until nothing remains except a husk.” Stannis had opened his eyes. They were haunted and full of regret and bitterness. “Is a man still human when he considers eating his own fallen soldiers?”

Sansa’s stomach twisted in on itself and she could not hide the revulsion she felt. Stannis’ face seemed to harden at the sight of her disgust.

“During the siege of Storm’s End I was nearly brought to that. Feasting on human flesh to survive.”

“Was the situation that dire in your war camp?” Sansa asked, unable to see how it could have become that bad so quickly. The siege of Storm’s End had lasted a year, hadn’t it?

“No.” Stannis’ face seemed to crumble. “No. It was not so dire. But I could not allow it to happen. Perhaps it would not have come to that. Perhaps we would all have frozen to death before we starved, but I -”

“Yes?”

Stannis was clenching his jaw very tightly, seemingly having a lot of trouble with putting his thoughts into words. “I could not let it happen. Not again. Not if I had the power to stop it. Not if I had the power to turn the tide.” He appeared truly anguished, though he was clearly trying to hide it.

“Your had your only daughter burnt because you could not bear the thought of waiting for better weather? Of being hungry for a little while?”

“You don’t understand,” Stannis bit out. “I had to make a choice. There was much at stake and I did what I thought I had to do. Melisandre’s magic had worked for me in the past. Thousands of lives were spared because of her. I thought it would be the same this time. I thought I was sacrificing one precious life to save thousands.” He dropped his eyes. “I know now that I made the wrong choice. My daughter paid the price for my folly. I accepted my fate when the Tarth woman executed me. I was willing to pay for my crimes.”

Sansa nodded slowly. The man was probably not mad, nor was he a monster like Ramsey had been. He had trusted the wrong person and he had lost _everything._

Sansa knew what that was like.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Your Grace,” she whispered, wondering if he had even had a chance to mourn his daughter.

“What loss? The loss of my daughter? My wife? The war?” Stannis scowled and looked away from her.

Sansa thought to ask him about the loss of his wife, but she had pressed him hard already. Doubtless, it was a sad tale -- whether cold or hardship ended her. The woman - Selyse? - was just lucky not to have seen her daughter burn or end up in Ramsey’s less than tender care. She decided to leave the subject. 

Instead, Sansa took a different line of attack. “Did you love the war?” Sansa raised an eyebrow.

Stannis glanced back at her face. It was as if he were searching for something, and Sansa kept herself still and hoped that he would find it.

“My losses are no less than what I deserve,” he muttered at length. “Do not waste your time feeling sorry about them.”

“I will do with my time as I see fit, Your Grace,” Sansa said. She was not sure that she did pity Stannis, but she was not sure that she did not, either.

He didn’t answer her.

Perhaps it was time to go. “I will send for some food,” she promised, turning to leave.

She caught a glimpse of Stannis’ face as she closed the door behind her. He had closed his eyes and relaxed his face, though there was still something hard and tense about the line of his mouth. 

It did not seem to be a mouth built for anything but frowning.


	4. On the Walls

Sandor didn’t manage to surprise her the next time he appeared behind her. She was taking a walk around the battlements to clear her head after her conversation with her guest. 

She felt his eyes on the back of her neck before he spoke.

“His Frozen Grace awake, then?”

Sansa furrowed her brow. _How did he find out?_

She smoothed her features and turned around to face Sandor with a polite expression. “Good evening.”

“There’s no one here, little bird. No need to chirp your courtesies. Just tell me, is the fucker awake? I want a word with him.”

Sansa looked around and saw that Sandor was right. Still, she wished he would maintain at least some semblance of courtesy. It did not seem too much to ask. Apparently it was. 

“What would you like to discuss with him?” Sansa asked. Somewhere at the back of her mind Littlefinger seemed to whisper to her. _Get all the information you can without revealing what you know._

After this morning, she did not think it was a good idea to let Sandor have a word with Stannis. One way or another, she would probably end up with a mess on her hands.

“His daughter,” Sandor bit out. “Shireen.”

“You knew her?” Judging by Sandor’s tone of voice and his reaction when he had first found out about what Stannis had done, he had been fond of Shireen.

“Stannis usually left his wife and Shireen on Dragonstone when he came to King’s Landing, but I met her once or twice. She had scars on half her face. Greyscale.”

Sansa nodded and glanced at Sandor’s scars for a breath.

“What was she like?”

Sandor snorted. “Never bloody talked to her, did I? Harmless little thing, though. I tried to keep Joffrey away from her, much as I could.”

Sansa’s stomach turned. She turned and looked out to the pale snow-covered lands surrounding the castle. It was odd. Ramsey had been a monster, but somehow the memory of Joffrey held more terror. She thought of Joffrey’s cool smirk, strong arms ready to carry out his orders, and rooms full of silent people watching without a word of protest. 

“I always thought it was... decent … how Stannis was to her.” 

Sansa turned and stared at Sandor in rapt fascination. “What do you mean?”

Sandor shrugged and looked down at the floor. “He didn’t give up on her when she got sick as a child, did he? He got help for her. And I heard he was giving her the same sort of education a lord’s son would be given. He accepted her as his heir. Scars and all.” He coughed. “He never let anyone say a bad word about her. Had some fights with his brothers over it.”

They were silent for a moment as Sansa digested Sandor’s words.

Stannis’ decision to burn Shireen seemed even more horrifying now. _He loved her._

Sansa knew that her father could never have done such a thing to her or her brothers and sister. Never. He would have sacrificed himself first.

 _He did sacrifice himself,_ she thought, her heart becoming suddenly too heavy within her. _He gave his honour and his life._

“So?” Sandor growled. “Is he awake or not?”

Sansa straightened her back. She did not wish to answer that question quite yet. “Did you really intend to ransom my sister?” she asked, hoping to distract Sandor.

“Yes,” Sandor said, a stubborn look appearing on his face. “What of it?”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She kept thinking about how close Arya had been to her in the Vale. If Sandor had arrived a little sooner…

“I would give every last gold dragon in Winterfell to see her again,” she whispered.

The stubborn look seemed to melt away, and Sandor looked almost contrite for a moment. “I’m sure she’s fine,” he muttered. “I saw her stab a man with that sword of hers. She can take care of herself.”

Sansa’s heart stopped beating for a moment. _Arya killed a man?_ It seemed impossible. 

“It is perhaps for the best that you did not bring her to me in the Vale,” Sansa said slowly, doing her best to stay composed.

“You were in the Vale?” Sandor asked, furrowing his brow.

“Yes… with Petyr. I’m glad she didn’t come with us to Winterfell.” She shuddered involuntarily at the thought of Arya in Ramsey’s hands.

“What were you doing in the Vale with Littlefinger?” Sandor’s tone was harsh, and he looked almost angry.

“Petyr helped me escape from King’s Landing,” Sansa said, keeping her tone neutral, and purposefully avoiding any mention of poison, weddings, and Joffrey.

Sandor met her eyes, and for a moment Sansa was transported to that awful night… the night when Sandor had left.

_I could take you with me. Take you to Winterfell._

She had wanted to believe him, and a part of her had been more than willing to go with him. But she had thought that Stannis had been about to take the city. She had thought that she would be safe once a true Baratheon king reclaimed the throne.

And she had been afraid.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Sandor muttered, looking away from her. He was frowning. “Shouldn’t have left you. Fucking Littlefinger.” He took a breath. “Little bird … in the castle, they said … they said you were wed to Ramsey Bolton. That …”

“Petyr arranged the marriage. I agreed to it. We both made a mistake.” _I have to believe that it was a mistake._ “Whatever you have heard, it is likely true.” Sansa took a breath. “It happened. I survived.” And what more was there to say than that? _Ramsey abused my body, but he never betrayed my trust, because he never had it. I can heal from what Ramsey did._ But she did not want to look at Sandor. 

“Petyr helped me more than once, at great risk to himself.” Sansa said, deliberately changing the subject, ignoring the painful way her heart was beating. “I may owe him my life.” _He helped me. I know what he is, but he was the only one who helped me. The only one who didn’t abandon me._

Sandor clenched his fists. “You don’t owe him a fucking thing.”

Sansa pressed her lips together and said nothing. 

“I shouldn’t have left,” Sandor repeated, his tone bitter.

“It’s in the past,” Sansa said sharply. _You can’t change the past._

Sandor gave her a long, measured look. In the end he nodded.

With a steadying breath, Sansa seized control of herself. _Courtesy is a lady’s armour._

“I’m afraid I must be on my way,” she said, “please let me know if there is anything I can do to make certain your stay in Winterfell is a comfortable one.”

“You could tell me whether Stannis is fucking awake.”

Sansa heaved a sigh. “He woke up for a little while this afternoon,” she said. “He’s probably asleep again, now.”

When Sandor made as if to stalk off, she placed a hand on his arm.

Sandor went very still, his eyes fixed on her hand.

“He regrets what he did,” she said, wondering as she spoke whether there was enough regret in the world to redeem the king.

Sandor grunted and gave her a mutinous look.

“Leave him be.” She inserted as much authority and finality to her words as she possibly could, recalling how Father had spoken when he intended to be heard. Heard and obeyed.

He remained still.

“Fine,” he ground out at length.

She released him and took a step back.

He turned and stormed off. 

She watched him walk away, her heart beating quickly in her breast.


	5. Quarrels

_Dear Brother,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and that you have arrived safely at Castle Black. I expect it will make it to the Wall long before you do, with the weather being what it is._

_I have important news. After Melisandre left Winterfell she found King Stannis Baratheon and revived him, just as she did you. She placed him in the care of Sandor Clegane and he has brought Stannis to Winterfell. Stannis is a guest here. He appears to be of sound mind and recovering well, although I must admit misgivings. I do not understand the magic that brought Stannis back, nor the deeds that lead to his death. Perhaps you will be able to help, in time, although I know you have greater concerns._

_I am certain King Stannis will want to discuss matters of state with you. He does not appear pleased to hear that the north has become its own kingdom. I have made it clear that it is a matter for the two of you to discuss amongst yourselves. We will need to plan that conversation carefully. I should also imagine that his Hand, Lord Seaworth, will want to write to him, or even ride back to Winterfell. I would ask that you attempt to determine Lord Seaworth’s plans if you can, discreetly, of course._

_Sandor Clegane has decided to stay here for the time being. Do you remember Sandor? He came to Winterfell with King Robert’s party. He helped me when I was a hostage in King’s Landing, and he has since deserted the Lannisters. He travelled with Arya for a while, and he has told me that he believes she is well, wherever she is. He last saw her near the Vale, but that was over a year ago. He says she has become adept at defending herself. I dearly hope he’s right._

_The construction work is going well, though progress has slowed due to the cold and the lack of workers. We will be very lucky if we manage to get the glass gardens properly fixed before the storms start coming._

_Lord Baelish’s sources in the south have brought news of trouble in the south. In Dorne, Doran Martell and his heir are both dead. The Iron Islands are in turmoil, too. Theon and his sister Yara have fled with much of the fleet, and their uncle Euron has declared himself king. Cersei Lannister is to stand trial before the Faith -- indeed, that trial has likely already occurred, but we are limited by the difficulties in communications through the north. Those difficulties will only get worse, I fear._

_Please write to me as soon as you get this letter. I miss you terribly, and hope for your safety._

_Your loving sister,_  
_Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell_

***

“You spend a lot of time with Stannis.” Petyr had cornered her in the godswood again. It had been snowing for a week, and everything was white and still and frozen.

Sansa didn’t spend that much time with Stannis. Not really. She just liked to sit in his chambers because Petyr never bothered her while she was in there; he had been more persistent than ever since Stannis and Sandor had arrived. _His plans_ , she thought, _are not going as he wishes._

To her surprise, she found she was enjoying the hours spent at the sick bay. Stannis was usually sleeping, but even when he wasn’t, he tended to be quiet. It was turning into the best place in the castle to write her letters and work on sewing projects that required a lot of concentration. 

The best place to _breathe._

No one bothered her while she was with the King.

“Do I?” Sansa said, keeping her tone mild.

“I know you’re planning something with him.”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek before she could reply with a vague, ‘am I?’ Petyr would know that she was mocking him.

“I’m not planning anything except his recovery,” she said instead, meeting Petyr’s eyes.

“I don’t understand why the witch had to bring him back,” Petyr said with a frown. “Setting aside the rather large and pressing question of how she _could_ … and I’m still not convinced that your Brienne didn’t just exaggerate the situation … What would be the point?”

Sansa was left with the distinct impression that Petyr viewed bringing people back from the dead as an interesting theoretical iteration on the Game.

“Sandor thinks Stannis will be able to help Jon win the war against the white walkers.”

Petyr scoffed. “I’m sure the King in the North and his followers will be thrilled to accept his help. That seven hundred foot Wall was useless without him. And I’m sure they’ll all bend the knee without a fuss.”

“Stannis is a very able and experienced battle commander,” Sansa objected. She could see Petyr’s point, but she thought he was being too glib. “They would be foolish to turn him away. They might be able to work together without anyone bending the knee to anyone.”

Petyr did not look convinced. “They have no reason to trust him. And Stannis Baratheon isn’t a man inclined to compromise.”

It was strange to hear Petyr speak of Stannis with such familiarity, but of course they had served together on the Small Council for many years. Stannis had scowled, and gone silent, when he learned that Petyr was at Winterfell. That neither had made the slightest effort to speak to the other said volumes about their relationship.

“They had no reason to trust you either, but they accepted the army you brought with you,” Sansa retorted.

“Stannis has no army.” Petyr turned away.

“No. But he knows how to lead one.” His last, terrible failure notwithstanding, Stannis had proven himself to be a superb military leader throughout his life. Sansa might not know very much about war, but she did know that.

“You don’t trust your brother to lead his own army?” Petyr looked back, and raised a mocking eyebrow.

“My brother... “ Sansa sighed. “My brother has been known to make rash decisions.”

“That,” Petyr said dryly, “is an understatement.”

Sansa sighed. She had not seen Rickon die, but she had been told what happened. A part of her was frustrated with Jon for falling into Ramsay’s trap, but a much larger part of her was grateful.

How horrible would it have been for her poor little brother if Jon had stayed still? If Jon had not even _tried?_ It was a comfort to Sansa to know that the last thing Rickon had seen was the vision of Jon riding towards him, reaching for him. Trying to save him.

_Instead, it was Petyr who saved us all. But for him, I would have lost both my brothers that day. And then Ramsey would have come for me._

It had been strange to watch Petyr leading the Vale army. She never thought of him as a man of war, but he had been competent leader, if not an inspirational one. Petyr knew what he was about commanding battles -- but then, he had grown up at Riverrun and been educated with Sansa’s Uncle Edmure. _He probably has as much training in battle tactics as Robb or Jon had before they left Winterfell, and they both proved strong generals. It is easy to underestimate Petyr. Easy … and dangerous._

“So you agree, then?” Sansa said, looking up at Petyr with the sweetest expression she could muster.

“Agree?”

“You agree that it would be wise if Stannis were to go the Wall and help lead the army?”

Petyr sighed and lowered his gaze. “Sweetling…” He opened his eyes and Sansa could almost see Petyr fading away to be replaced with Littlefinger. “Stannis won’t be able to convince anyone at the Wall to listen to him. He’s out of the game. Finished.”

“He is the rightful King of Westeros.” _My father supported Stannis’ claim._

Littlefinger shot her a look. “He lost the crown when he lost his life. He has no wife, no heir, no lands, and no army.”

“I think Jon would listen to him,” Sansa said, raising her chin. “Jon knows Stannis.”

“Do you think that will matter?” Littlefinger asked, “do you think Stannis will accept that the north claims to be its own kingdom with it’s own king? Do you think a leader like Jon can simply decide not to be the people’s chosen anymore, even if he wished to? He is bound to act as his men expect him to act. If he attempts to step aside…”

“What?” Sansa crossed her arms. “What will happen if, to say, Jon bends the knee and steps aside to make way for Stannis?”

“It might easily cause a rift. There are southerners and northerners at the Wall, both. And each have their factions. Some of the men might respect Jon’s decision, some might be inspired by it, but some might not. There will be anger and discord.”

“Chaos?” Sansa kept her voice deliberately soft.

Littlefinger’s eyes seemed to glow. “Yes.”

Sansa knew that Littlefinger thrived on chaos. He would not object to the idea of Stannis going to the Wall after this. Not if he believed he might be able to benefit from the ensuing furore. _And now he has an interest in Stannis’ continued survival._

“I have to go back to the keep,” Sansa said, tearing her gaze away from Littlefinger’s eyes. “I want to see how the construction work has been progressing today.”

“It should be going well now that you have your dog helping out.” 

“We’re lucky he’s here,” Sansa said, ignoring Littlefinger’s derision. It was futile to attempt to get him to afford Sandor some respect and she would rather conserve her energy. “We might be able to finish fixing the glass gardens before the weather turns even fouler because of him.”

“He lusts for you.” It was Petyr who was looking at her now, anguish and jealousy in his eyes.

“Most men seem to,” Sansa said, clasping her hands in front of her and pursing her lips.

“I do not,” Petyr said, his voice passionate. He took a step towards her and raised his hand, reaching for a lock of hair not hidden by her sable trimmed hood. “I love you,” he whispered.

Sansa backed away from him and shook her head. “Then why did you sell me to the Boltons like a horse?” She still could not quite believe that Petyr had been stupid enough to underestimate Ramsay the way he had. But if it hadn’t been stupidity, it had been malice. She did not believe it had been malice. Petyr was not malicious. _Everything he does is for a purpose._

“I’ve told you that I made a mistake,” Petyr said, his tone imploring. “I’ve told you how sorry I am.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Sansa said, not letting herself betray any sort of emotion. 

Petyr closed the distance between them again and grabbed her hands. He held them to his mouth and kissed them, closing his eyes as if the act brought him some great pleasure. “I would have you wed me,” he murmured. “I would spend the rest of my life making up for my mistake. I would protect you. I would …” He took a breath. “I will make you Queen.”

The Iron Throne. It always comes back to that. It seemed such a strange goal for Petyr to strive for. The Throne did not seem to be a seat anyone warmed for very long these days, and throwing himself into the battle for it was not likely to end well for him. It seemed so… badly thought out. Was Petyr really so simple? Or was this just another one of his lies?

Sansa remembered what she had told Jon when he had promised to protect her.

_No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone._

She was inclined to repeat those words now, but she was afraid Petyr might think she was issuing some sort of challenge -- asking him to prove himself.

“I cannot wed a man I do not trust.”

“You can trust me, Sansa. Did I not come when you called? Did I not save your bastard brother and those of his men who had not been slaughtered?” Petyr’s grip on her hands was so tight that it was becoming uncomfortable. She tugged herself free and turned her back on him.

“A good deed does not erase a bad one,” she said, carefully following the narrow path she and Petyr had created in the snow in order to get to the clearing.

“You sound like your father.” Petyr’s words were not meant to be a compliment, but Sansa smiled as she walked away.

_Good. ___


	6. Glass Panes

“I do not require a nursemaid,” Stannis grumbled one afternoon. He was sitting up in his bed, wearing a nightshirt and a scowl. He had started to regain his strength after a fortnight of being kept warm and well fed, and he usually spent his mornings taking short walks inside the keep. Sansa could tell that soon he would no longer need to return to bed after his excursions.

“I know you do not,” Sansa said, “I do not come here for your benefit.”

Stannis furrowed his brow even more than it had already been furrowed. “Oh?”

“No one bothers me while I’m in here,” she said.  It seemed apparent enough.

This did not seem to be the response Stannis had been expecting. He blinked and rubbed at his beard. Then, with a grimace, he dropped his hand and cleared his throat.

“Who bothers you?”

_At the moment? You._ Sansa hid her irritation and put her needlework aside.

“Running a great keep is a lot of work as I’m sure you know, Your Grace. Sometimes it’s nice to have a quiet moment to oneself.”

“If your people pester you unnecessarily it is up to you to discipline them.”

“My people are fine,” Sansa said, looking down at her hands and trying not to let Stannis see her bristle, “but some men do not seem to understand or accept it when their attentions are unwanted.”

The problem with Petyr was far more complicated than that, of course, but she could not share that with Stannis.

When Stannis did not answer straight away, Sansa looked back at him. He had gone very pale.

“Has anyone been… inappropriate ... towards you?” he asked, his tone absurdly careful. It did not suit him to speak thusly. Something inside her softened towards him for asking her such a question despite his obvious discomfort.

“No,” she said, watching as some of the tension seemed to drain from Stannis’ shoulders, “but I am running out of ways to courteously reject proposals.”

“No one should be proposing to you directly,” Stannis said at once, looking indignant. “Interested parties ought petition your older brother for your hand,” he continued. “Or your king.” He was no longer pale at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Sansa had to suppress a smile at Stannis’ certainty that those were two different people.  

“I will not tolerate being sold again,” she said. “My mother and father sold me to Prince Joffrey and he turned out to be a monster. Lord Petyr Baelish saved me from him only to sell me to Ramsay Bolton: another monster. I am the Lady of Winterfell. When I get married again, Your Grace, I will choose my husband myself.”

Stannis grimaced. “Your bloodline is eight thousand years old and your children will carry the Stark name, should you wed into a lesser house. You cannot simply choose some…” Stannis made a vague gesture with one hand, “... handsome knight.”

Sansa balled her hands into fists. Did the insufferable man think her stupid?

“I know how the game is played, Your Grace,” she said, letting a hint of a warning into her tone, “do not presume that I don’t.”   _And my marriage is a part of the game._

Stannis had clenched his jaw shut, and he was staring at her as if she were a puzzle to be solved. 

_Or an intractable horse._

Sansa took a deep breath. “Will you come to the Great Hall for the evening meal, Your Grace, or shall I have some food sent here?” She made her voice pleasant and courteous, and painted her lips with a smile.

He searched her eyes as he thought it over. “I will come to the Great Hall,” he said after a few beats. “And I would sit next to you, Lady Stark.”

Sansa nodded. _Of course you will sit next to me. Where else would a king sit?_

“I daresay no one will propose to you while I’m near.”

“I believe you’re right,” Sansa said, with a smile.  It might be useful to allow Stannis to believe she needed his protection.  “I will send someone along to help you dress.”

Stannis scowled. “I can dress myself, woman.”

“I believe you’ll find that challenging,” Sansa said, raising an eyebrow at him, “there aren’t any clothes in here for you.” She knew for a fact that the clothes he usually wore for his walks around the Great Keep were being washed.

Stannis blinked. “Have my clothes brought here at once,” Stannis said, his eyes had become narrow slits.

“The clothes you have been wearing for the past few days do not belong to you. Your own clothes were beyond mending, and in any event, you can hardly come to dinner wearing armour. But I will have something found for you. Something appropriate for a king.”

Stannis looked ready to argue, so she planted her feet firmly and got ready to argue right back. He stared at her, his jaw working and his hands digging restlessly into the furs on either side of him. “Fine,” he muttered, the fight disappearing from him like a warm breath of air on a cold night.

Sansa fought the impulse to smile triumphantly. “I’ll see you at dinner, Your Grace,” she said calmly, leaving Stannis’ chambers in a much better mood than she had arrived in.

***

Sansa found herself walking past the glass gardens more often than she usually might have after Sandor started working there. It was… interesting ... to watch him work. She had seen him carry glass panes that usually required the strength of at least three northmen all on his own, and he seemed to do it without difficulty.  He only broke a sweat on the warmest of days, when the sun would shine and a little of the snow would melt.

Today was a warm day, and her tour of the castle grounds took her past the workmen fastening the glass in place.  She didn’t see Sandor, though.  Perhaps he was on the walls, or helping with repairs to the stable roof.    

“Little bird?”

Sansa froze. 

“Sandor,” she said, gathering her wits and inclining her head. “I was just about to visit you and the other builders to inspect the progress of the work.”

“Oh?” Sandor was staring at her, searching her face.

She felt blood rush to her cheeks. “Yes. I wanted to ask if you were in need of any supplies.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well then,” Sansa said, clasping her hands in front of her and hoping that Sandor would attribute her red cheeks to the cold. “I suppose you’ve saved me the rest of the walk.”

Sandor regarded her in silence for a moment, and Sansa did her best to breathe normally.

“You can’t trust him,” he suddenly said, taking a step towards her.

She stayed still. She was sure she knew what Sandor meant, but she decided to ask him clarify nonetheless. “I beg your pardon?”

“Littlefinger. He’s up to something.”

Sansa gazed up at Sandor’s eyes, and her heart skipped a beat at what she saw in them. She didn’t have the words to describe it, but it made her feel like her fur cloak was wholly unnecessary.

_Well, of course he is. This is Littlefinger._  She felt her cheeks flushing, this time with anger.   _Do you think me a fool?_

“I’m sure he only wants what’s best for the realm,” Sansa said, her words slow and measured. With her eyes she tried to tell Sandor that she appreciated his warning.

He turned away from her and made a disgusted sound.  “The fuck he does,” he muttered.

Sansa wanted to assure him that she was well aware of the danger, but she was afraid of speaking too candidly out in the open. Anyone might be listening.   _Doesn’t he understand that?_

“Sandor,” she began.

“I’m going for a shit,” Sandor interrupted, not looking at her. He was already walking off.

Sansa remained still and silent as his enormous frame rounded a corner and disappeared. Her cheeks still felt hot.  


_To the Stranger with him._


	7. The King’s New Clothes

Sansa brought her cup to her lips to hide their curve of amusement. King Stannis did not seem pleased with the clothes she had sent him. He was walking very stiffly towards the empty seat on her right, glaring at the people who dared to look up as he passed them by.

She had asked one of her own maids to find the most ostentatious doublet in the keep. The woman ended up appropriating a garment from luggage left by one of the Vale knights who had gone to the Wall. It truly was a sight to behold. Heavy deep blue velvet, intricate golden scrollwork, and glittering details. It was something Sansa could easily picture Jaime Lannister wearing. It looked completely out of place when paired with Stannis’ serious countenance. It did, however, make him look rather regal, and despite his glares, the people in the Great Hall went respectfully quiet as he walked past.

“You will find me something different to wear for tomorrow, Lady Stark,” Stannis said as soon as he had taken his seat.

“I apologise, Your Grace. Is this doublet not fine enough?”

“It’s ridiculous.” He began to eat, serving himself steaming fresh meat from nearby platters. Some of the soldiers of the garrison had been lucky on a scouting trip and they had felled a deer.

“It is the only doublet that is both in your size and appropriate for a king.”

“I will decide what is appropriate for a king.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, “I happen to have a bit of velvet stored away. Perhaps you would like to choose some fabric and I could have a new doublet made for you?”

“That’s not necessary and it will take far too long. Anything plain that fits will do.” Stannis was obviously hungry, but he ate slowly despite this, chewing methodically.

“Plain clothes will not do, Your Grace. I cannot let it be known that the Lady of Winterfell could not supply the King of Westeros with proper attire.”

He glared at her. 

She met his eyes serenely. 

He looked away before she did.

“Just make sure the clothes that are being washed are returned to me,” he grumbled at his plate.

Sansa smiled to herself. Stannis might not like it, but she was determined to have him look and play the part of a king while he was in her home. Stark hospitality reflected Stark power, and she needed to be seen as powerful.

She glanced at Petyr now, wondering what he thought of Stannis’ new look, and was surprised by the hateful look in Littlefinger’s eyes. He looked… jealous.

Wondering if he considered Stannis a rival for her affections, Sansa turned in her seat, pointing her body more directly at the king. Then, with a subtle deep breath, she lifted her hand and brought it up to touch Stannis’ beard very lightly.

“You should have your beard trimmed, Your Grace,” she said in a low voice. “You look like a wildling.”

Stannis looked at her, his eyes startled. He was quick to hide his surprise, however, and narrowed his eyes. “Unhand me, Lady Stark.”

Sansa retracted her hand slowly, giving Stannis a sweet smile. A quick glance at Littlefinger told her he was definitely jealous of the king. His eyes were burning with envy. Envy and… something else that worried her. He had looked like that when she had been with him in the Eyrie, too. It was a scheming, malevolent look that did not bode well.

A sudden movement on the other side of the Hall distracted Sansa from her study of Petyr. Sandor Clegane had stood up, the bench he had been sitting on scraping against the stone floor loudly. He was looking at Sansa with an unreadable expression, clenching his hands into fists.

Sansa met his gaze. _Do you seek to judge me, Sandor? Or to control me? I won’t have it._

They stared at each other for a moment before Sandor strode out of the Great Hall, his footsteps echoing.

“Volatile temper,” Stannis said with a frown, “he should have been put down a long time ago.”

“He has his uses,” Sansa said, watching as the Hound’s hulking figure disappeared. “I was a maiden untouched on my wedding night because of Sandor.” _And you’re here because of him, Your Grace._

Stannis stopped chewing and blinked at her.

“Did you hear about the bread riot in King’s Landing?” she asked, understanding that Stannis wanted an explanation.

He nodded and started chewing again.

“Several men from Flea Bottom cornered me during the riot. They would have raped me if Sandor had not intervened.” Perhaps Stannis would not think it mattered, as she had been raped by her husband anyway. But it mattered to Sansa. 

Something like guilt passed over Stannis’ face like a shadow.

Did he understand that the riot would never have happened if he and his brother had not cut off the food supply to the city in their struggle to claim the Iron Throne?

“He is less monstrous than his brother,” Stannis muttered.

“Most are.” Sandor’s past was none of Stannis’s concern. “But his brother is dead,” Sansa said. She kept her voice cool. “Poisoned by the Red Viper’s spear.” Petyr had told her about it when they had been in the Vale. When she had been playing his niece.

Stannis grunted something that sounded like it might have been ‘Martell’ and made a face.

“You don’t like very many people, do you?” Sansa asked, taking a sip of her wine.

“Not very many people are worth liking.” Stannis sniffed his own wine and took a very small sip.

“And yet, surely some are. How do you determine if a person is worth it, Your Grace?” She was curious despite herself.

“Loyalty, truthfulness, intelligence…” Stannis muttered, glancing around the table as if he were looking for something, “I would rather hear a man’s honest opinion than listen to useless flattery.” Stannis seemed to give up on his search and he turned to look at her. “Is there any water?”

Sansa turned her head and caught the eye of a waiting servant. “Could you please bring King Stannis some drinking water?”

It was done. Stannis seemed marginally more pleased with the water than he had been with his wine.

“Surely there are plenty of people in the world who are honourable, truthful, and intelligent, Your Grace,” Sansa said, even though she didn’t know very many people who fit that description.

Stannis snorted and glared at the meat he was cutting up. “If there are, very few of them have made my acquaintance.”

“Very few?” Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Anyone I know?”

“Ser Barristan Selmy. My Lord Hand, Davos Seaworth. Your half brother, Jon Snow.” Stannis’ jaw snapped shut.

Sansa decided not to ask why her father was not included on the list. Her heart ached at the very thought of him, and she closed her eyes briefly to stave off the horrible images of his head on a spike. 

“Lord Seaworth was a commoner before he entered your service, was he not?”

“And your brother is a bastard. What of it?”

Sansa pressed her lips together tightly at Stannis’ comment about Jon but decided not to say anything about it. “I do not know many lords - or kings - who would honour a commoner the way you have, Your Grace,” she said instead, choosing to focus on Davos.

“Davos has more sense than all the painted peacocks of the Red Keep’s court put together.”

Sansa glanced at Petyr again, thinking of the way he had always dressed in King’s Landing. The way he still dressed, to some extent. He had always looked more like a peacock than a mockingbird. And yet his birth was closer to that of Davos than to that of Stannis or Sansa. 

Petyr was looking down at his plate, but Sansa could see that he was gripping his cup very tightly; his knuckles were white from the strain.

“You must miss Davos,” Sansa said, speaking softly. She missed the girl she had been when she had thought the world of the peacocks in King’s Landing. 

Stannis didn’t respond. He was chewing more meat, his jaw working tirelessly.

“Hopefully Jon will receive my letter soon. Perhaps your Hand will ride back to Winterfell when he finds out that you’re alive,” Sansa said, filling the silence.

Stannis grunted, but it seemed to Sansa that some of his tension eased.

Sansa focused on her own meal after that, and allowed herself to get lost in thoughts of what Jon might be up to.

She was still thinking of Jon when she walked to her chambers later that evening, wondering whether he had received her letter yet. Hoping that she would receive a response soon. But when she rounded the final corner, her thoughts were driven from her mind. 

Sandor was lurking outside her door.

“Good evening,” she said, her tone a little chilly. It had been rude of him to leave the Great Hall at dinner the way he had.

“You can stop glaring at me, Little Bird,” Sandor muttered, “I won’t keep you for long.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow.

“I already warned you once,” Sandor continued, frowning. “Littlefinger is up to something. You need to be careful.”

It was hard to resist the urge to make a noise of frustration and stomp her foot. _I know! I know he’s up to something._

“Thank you for the warning,” Sansa said, her voice becoming still cooler.

“You should stay away from Stannis, too,” Sandor added, crossing his arms and not meeting her eyes.

_Is Sandor jealous, too? Like Petyr? Or is he just trying to control me?_

_I am so tired of being told what to do._

“I will keep company with whomever I please, Sandor. I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sandor blew out a loud harsh breath and ran his hand through his hair, pulling it away from his scarred face for a moment. Sansa tried not to let her eyes linger.

“Fucking hells,” he then muttered, turning around to leave.

“I am not the fool you think I am,” she burst out at his back. 

He swung around. His face was stunned. 

“I know Petyr is up to something. He is always up to something. He maneuvers until he has me in the position he wants ... you think I don’t know that? What I am to do, Sandor? Tell me that!” She ran her hands through her hair, and paced. “And Stannis burned a child alive. You think I am too stupid to understand that? And yet I must deal with both of them. I cannot throw them into the snow and bar my doors, because in a year one or both could be back. Can you tell me what would happen? Can you?”

“I … I …” he dropped his eyes. “Little Bird, I am sorry. No, I do not think you a fool.” 

She took a breath. “Thank you.” 

There was a long moment of silence. 

“Sandor Clegane.” She chose her words carefully. “What is it that you wish for me to consider?”

“Little --” he stopped, and swallowed. “Sansa. I know nothing specific. But I was at court for years with Baelish and Stannis both. Stannis is a clever cunt. His brain is always working away. I reckon he’s a better man than either one of his brothers, but… “ Sandor coughed, and looked like he wanted to spit. “There’s not a lot of kindness in him. He’s hard. Harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. Tywin fucking Lannister came a close second, and you know what he’s like.” Sandor paused and seemed to be thinking carefully. “Man like that loses his mind… I don’t think you want to stick around and watch.”

“I’ll remember what you said. I’ll be careful, as much as I can.” 

Sandor nodded. “Thank you for listening. It is more than most would.” He turned to go.

“Sandor? What about Baelish?”

He turned back. His face was shadowed. “I know that you are no fool, Little Bird. But every time you speak to him, every time you look at him, tell yourself that he is a devil that the Stranger himself would fear.”


	8. Word from the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarah speaking - I just wanted to add this note to wish Blue a very happy birthday today! Because it is her birthday you all get an early update. Let's all celebrate! ♥

_Dear Sister,_

_I have finally made it back to the Wall. It was an arduous journey through the snow and we lost several horses and two knights from the Vale. For the most part we are well, however._

_I have news, too. Don’t worry, it’s good news. The best._

_Bran was here at the Wall when we arrived. He is alive! Dolorous Edd has been taking good care of him and his companion, Meera Reed, and they are both hale and strong. Bran wishes me to send you his love, and he tells me that he intends to write you a letter soon. He says he has many things to tell us. I have told him of Rickon’s death, and all that has befallen us both since we last met, and he is much grieved._

_Bran is hoping to come to Winterfell as soon as he is able. He does not have the use of his legs, but the men of the Night’s Watch have been working on making him a saddle that will allow him to sit a horse. It has not been going very well as they do not have much skill in the area -- we have no experienced saddlemakers at present. Bran thinks designs Tyrion Lannister gave him for a modified saddle might still be in the library at Winterfell. I told him they might have been lost due to the Greyjoys, the Boltons and the fire. Could you attempt to have them located, nonetheless?_

_I confess that it the news from Winterfell startled me a great deal. The fact that Stannis Baratheon is alive will change many things. I have included a letter from myself to him along with this one. I do not know whether Lord Seaworth will write to Stannis or ride to Winterfell. He has not spoken to me since I told him of the king’s return. But many of the Vale men seem cheered by the news of his survival. Stannis is not well loved, but I think these last years have made men desire stability above all, and the boy-king on the throne in King’s Landing does not inspire confidence._

_I remember Sandor Clegane well. He is not an easy man to forget. Are you certain he is no longer loyal to the Lannisters? And that he can be trusted? I implore you to be careful. I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you._

_I am more glad than words can say to hear your news about Arya. Let me know immediately if you hear anything more. May the Gods protect her._

_I wish you were here. I know the Wall is not a suitable place for a lady, but it would have been wonderful if Bran, you, and I could have been reunited all at once. We have all lost and suffered so much._

_Your loving brother,_  
_Jon Snow_

Sansa paced around her solar, Jon’s letter clutched in her hand and her heart beating furiously.

Bran was alive!

Bran was _safe._

She had wept tears of joy since she had read the words. It scarcely seemed real. 

_Oh Bran._

She did not now how many times she had reread the letter, but it was many times, before a dark thought crept in. 

_What does this mean for me?_ She wondered, and her own thoughts seemed to come in Petyr’s voice. 

Her stomach writhed as her thoughts rushed ahead and she tried to make sense of the future. Bran would be Lord of Winterfell. Sansa’s fate would be in his hands. Just a piece in the game; someone to be used to make a political alliance.

An alliance like the ones with Joffrey or Ramsey. 

Bran loved her, she did not doubt that, but it had been so long since she had seen him. He had been just a boy. Now he was on the verge of manhood. Perhaps he would have little patience for the fears of an older sister he had not seen in years.

Unless…

Would Bran be able to sire heirs? Would his condition allow him to bed a woman? If he was not able to have children, Sansa might still serve a vital purpose here in the north. Her children might still be the future of the Stark line.

She felt guilty for almost hoping that Bran would not be able to have children. She did not like being uncertain of her place in the world. Being the Lady of Winterfell felt so right to her, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to give it up. 

But … she weighed the letter in her hand. To have another brother alive, after the loss of Robb and Rickon … how could that be anything but a source of joy to her? Bran was alive, and he would be Lord of Winterfell.

Surely Bran wouldn’t treat her like a horse to be sold? Surely Jon would intervene if he tried? She was probably worrying about nothing. Everything would be fine.

Sansa wiped the tears from her face and tried to breathe deeply and evenly in order to calm herself. There was much to be done. She had her regular duties to attend to, but she also needed to deliver King Stannis’ letter to him, and have someone search the library for the designs Jon had asked for.

 _The letter first,_ Sansa thought to herself, her hand unconsciously going to her hair to pat it down and make sure no unruly strands were escaping her plait.

Finding Stannis was not easy. Ever since he had regained enough strength to walk about the castle at will, he tended to spend his days on the move. Eventually Sansa found him, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak and interrogating the new master of horse, Grenn. Thankfully they were standing outside the stable so Sansa was not required to go into the smelly place. She would rather tolerate the snow and the cold. _Horses stink._

Grenn looked relieved to see her. “Lady Stark,” he said, bowing his head briefly, “how may I be of service?”

Sansa smiled at him. “I only require that you continue to do your work as well as you have been, thank you.” She touched his elbow briefly, and watched as his face turned red. “I am here to speak to King Stannis.”

Stannis, who had been glaring at them both, did not look surprised.

When Grenn had gone into the stables after nearly tripping over his own feet in the snow, Sansa found Stannis’ letter where she had hidden it in the bodice of her warm velvet gown, and handed it over. 

“Jon wrote you a letter.”

Stannis stared at the letter for a beat or two. “I suppose he wrote to you as well?” he asked, reaching to accept the roll of paper.

They started to walk towards the Great Keep.

“He did,” Sansa said.

“And?” Stannis sounded impatient, but Sansa noticed that he was not breaking the seal on his letter. Perhaps he wished to protect the fragile paper from the snowflakes that were drifting down from the sky, getting caught on the fur of their cloaks and sparkling as they melted. Perhaps he simply wished to read it in private.

“My younger brother, Brandon, has been found,” she told him, searching his face for a reaction. He looked a lot better than he had when he had first arrived. His beard had been neatly trimmed, he had filled out a bit, and the shadows under his eyes were not quite as dark. He narrowed his eyes in response to her words, and the frown he always seemed to wear became more pronounced.

“The cripple?”

“Don’t call him that,” Sansa snapped, “he is Lord Stark.”

“Will _Lord Stark_ be coming to Winterfell?” Stannis asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. The men of the Night’s Watch are trying to make a special saddle for him so that he’ll be able to ride. Maybe once they manage it he’ll be able to come. The road is too treacherous for a wheelhouse.”

“A sled might do,” Stannis said.

Sansa nodded. “If they are unable to sort out the saddle I am sure he will be put on a sled. But I know my brother. He would prefer to ride.”

“What will you do when you are no longer the Lady of Winterfell?” Stannis asked.

Sansa usually did not mind his blunt manner. After the court in King’s Landing and too much time spent with Petyr, it was rather refreshing. But right now, when she was still feeling a bit raw about the idea of losing her position, she found that she disliked it intensely.

“I don’t know,” she said, forcing herself not to glare at the King. Perhaps it would be best if she changed the subject. “Why were you talking to my master of horse?”

“I wanted to know how many destriers Winterfell commands and what the man is feeding them. Do you know he is spoiling the beasts with carrots?”

Sansa suddenly understood why Grenn had been so pleased to see her.

“I hope you weren’t berating him for it. The horses deserve a treat every now and then.”

“Someone should berate the man. It is winter. Vegetables should be kept for people.” Stannis reached the nearest door to the Great Keep half a step before Sansa did. He opened it and held the heavy door open for her. “The horses can have oats for a treat if you must spoil them,” he added.

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to leave those decisions up to the master of horse. I’m sure he knows what’s best.”

“Your master of horse is a simpleton. It’s a wonder he can tell the tail of a horse from its head.”

“Grenn is not a simpleton,” Sansa argued. Hodor had been simple. Grenn was just… normal. “He’s a very sweet man.”

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Stannis muttered. He was walking towards the Great Hall, and Sansa realised when she felt a pang of hunger that it was nearly time for the midday meal.

“Encourage him?” Sansa furrowed her brow.

“The fool is obviously infatuated with you,” Stannis said, his tone full of scorn, “you should not flatter him with your touch or your smiles.”

Sansa stared at him, shocked. Grenn had never been anything but proper in his behaviour to his lady, and she had shown him no inappropriate favour. “Why should I not be kind to the people in my service?”

“Cersei Lannister has been rumoured to be very… kind to the men in the Red Keep. Do you intend to follow in her footsteps?”

Sansa felt her face heat up. Did Stannis honestly think she would use the ‘weapon between her legs’ the way Cersei had done before the faith had her arrested? She stopped moving. Stannis took a few steps before he noticed and turned around. The were alone in a dimly lit corridor.

“I am nothing like Cersei Lannister,” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes at Stannis. “She is a foul, false woman who thrives on making people fear her. All I want is my home back. All I want is to feel _safe._ ”

Stannis was standing very stiffly, his jaw working and his eyes intensely focused.

They stared at each other for what felt like a very long time to Sansa, but in the end she realised Stannis was not going to answer her, so she blew out a breath and started walking again. “Do not liken me to that woman again,” she warned as she pushed past the king. 

He was still standing rooted to the ground by the time she turned the next corner.

***

Miraculously, Petyr managed to find the designs for Bran’s special saddle in what remained of the library. Sansa’s smile was genuine when he brought them to her. She knew how much it would mean to Bran to be able to ride. And to be able to come home.

“They will have to be hand-delivered, I’m afraid,” Petyr said, a satisfied look on his face, “they are too heavy for a raven to transport. Perhaps King Stannis and Clegane could take the designs to the Wall when they go?”

Both Stannis and Sandor had decided that they would go to the Wall soon, but they were not planning on leaving quite yet. Sandor said he wanted to finish working on the glass gardens, and Stannis was not truly fit to travel. Not with the roads in the condition they were in.

“Could the instructions not be copied out and written on more suitable paper? Something that a raven would be able to carry? Time is of the essence.”

Petyr’s look of satisfaction disappeared. “I suppose,” he said, something sour in his tone.

“Could you take care of that for me?” She made her voice sweet and hoped that it would suffice.

“Of course."

Sansa had no idea if Petyr was genuinely trying to worm himself into her good graces or whether he was just pretending to curry her favour in furtherance of some other scheme. Either way, she would be looking at the copy he made before having it sent.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish,” she said, trying to establish a bit of distance between them. Whenever she called him Petyr his eyes softened. It was as if his whole face changed, and it both drew her in and repelled her.

“You know I would do anything for you,” he murmured, taking a step towards her.

Sansa straightened her spine, using her height to her advantage and telling him without words that she did not want him any closer. “I know,” she said, her voice soft and hard at once.

 _I know. And yet I don’t._ There always seemed to be another layer of Petyr, ready to be peeled away and discarded. Every time she was tempted to fall back into his orbit, she thought of Lysa Arryn’s scream as she feel through the Moon Door. _She thought he cared for her, too._

Her heart beat heavily in her chest as she turned her back on Petyr, telling him without words that he was dismissed from her solar. When she heard the door close behind him she closed her eyes in relief.


	9. A True Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early update because Blue and Sarah feel deeply for the people of the United States right now, and also the rest of the world. Neither Blue nor Sarah are US citizens, but they know that this election result - Trump winning - will have huge repercussions. Hopefully this chapter will help cheer everyone up a little bit.

_Dear Sister,_

_I am sorry I did not write sooner. There is so much I want to tell you, but I can’t write most of it down._

_I can tell you that I am hale - aside from my legs - and I have learnt much on my journey north of the Wall. I lost Hodor, however. He died protecting Meera and me. He was so brave. Summer died bravely, too. I don’t think I’ll ever quite be the same without him. I know you understand._

_Jon told me that I am Lord Stark, but I’m glad you are acting as the Lady of Winterfell. I hope you know that I will never send you away from our home, and I will never make you marry anyone you don’t want to marry. Jon said I should tell you that. Please know that you have nothing to fear from me._

_I love you. I miss you. Hopefully I will see you soon._

_Your loving brother,_  
_Lord Brandon Stark_

Sansa’s eyes were full of tears, but she did not let them fall. The smile was harder to suppress. Bran was just as sweet as she remembered. Both her brothers were really so very kind to her. Would it be terrible if she gathered them to her side and stayed in Winterfell with them for the rest of her life, keeping everyone else outside the gates?

They could be happy together without the horrors of the world intruding and taking good, loyal people and innocent wolves from them.

There was a knock on her solar door.

Sansa sucked in a deep breath and willed her tears away. “Enter,” she said, wincing at how vulnerable her voice sounded.

Beth Cassel came into the room. “My lady,” she said, her face a little flushed as if she had recently been outside. “Your lady knight has returned.”

 _Brienne?_ Sansa stood up and felt her heart begin to race. “Where is she?” she asked, wondering if Brienne had been able to successfully bring some men with her from Riverrun.

“I will take you to her,” Beth said, already walking towards the nearest staircase, her long, curly auburn hair swaying with each careful step she took.

Sansa followed and frowned when she noticed how gingerly Beth still walked. Beth had survived the Greyjoys and the Boltons, but she had suffered during the Bolton’s rule; that much was obvious. This did not keep her from keeping her back straight and her shoulders thrown back, however, and Sansa was proud to see it.

Sansa quietly asked after Beth’s health when they had been walking in silence for a minute.

“I’m well, my lady,” Beth said at once, “the Stark banner has been restored. _Winterfell_ is being restored.” 

There was a light in Beth’s eyes that the Boltons had not been able to extinguish, and Sansa felt the sudden urge to hug the girl.

“I’m glad you’re well,” Sansa said. Then, because she could not contain her curiosity, she added, “did you see whether Lady Brienne was alone?”

“She had a squire with her,” Beth answered. “It’s odd for a lady to be a knight with her own squire, don’t you think?”

 _Pod._ Sansa smiled to herself for a moment, pleased to know that the sweet young squire was well.

It was disappointing to hear that Brienne had not been able to bring an army, or even just her uncle the Blackfish, but Sansa continued to smile to herself nonetheless. Aside from being pleasantly reminded of Pod, Beth’s talk of lady knights was making Sansa think of Arya. Brienne had told her that Arya had been wearing common clothing and breeches. Was Arya playing at being a boy somewhere? Getting muddy and making friends with people from all walks of life?

 _Arya is fine wherever she is. She is too resourceful to be anything but fine._ Sansa had to believe that.

“It is a bit odd,” Sansa agreed, forcing herself to put her thoughts of Arya aside, “but Lady Brienne helped me escape the Boltons and get to the Wall. Without her, I would never have made it to Jon, and we would not be here safe in Winterfell now. We all owe her a great debt of gratitude.” 

“Yes, my lady.”

Sansa had long since realised that Beth was taking her to the Great Hall, but now that they were nearing their destination, Sansa started to hear raised voices. She gave Beth a concerned look, and they both hastened their pace.

“I was just doing what needed to be done!”

“You fucking botched it!”

“I never intended for the girl to flee!”

“But she did bugger off, and now no one has her. Because you botched everything up.”

“I was trying to do the right thing. I swore an oath -”

“I’ll show you what you can do with your _oaths._ ”

Sandor and Brienne were standing in the middle of the Great Hall, their faces inches apart as they argued. Brienne was a lot paler than she should have looked after being out in the cold, but Sandor was red with rage.

Petyr stood to one side, watching the conflict with polite interest on his face. His eyes were laughing. 

No meals were being served, so the hall was thankfully empty for the most part. Beth had already faded into the background along with a few servants who had been watching the argument. Sansa knew that the details of the confrontation would be all over the castle before nightfall.

“Sandor, Lady Brienne,” Sansa said, interrupting Sandor before he could show anyone what Brienne could do with her oaths, “I will not tolerate this sort of behaviour under my roof.”

“My lady,” Brienne bowed her head and took a step away from Sandor at once.

“She nearly killed me,” Sandor said, his voice an angry growl. “It’s her fault your sister is lost.”

Sansa felt as if her heart was being squeezed, but she made sure not to show it on her face. “My sister chose to run away. It is not Lady Brienne’s fault any more than it is yours.”

“What’s all this noise?” The harsh voice that had just spoken made Sansa want to hide her face in her hands. Stannis could not have chosen a worse time to come to the Great Hall. 

Sandor immediately turned his back on all of them. The high ceiling of the Hall echoed with his footsteps as he stormed out. 

Sansa stared after him, dismayed. _Don’t leave me alone with all this madness._ But he was gone. 

Petyr sauntered over to a bowl of fruit that had been placed on one of the tables. He selected a bright red apple and took a bite.

Lady Brienne took a step back when she saw the king, her hand going to her sword belt and her eyes becoming round with terror. “You…” she hissed.

Stannis grimaced at the sight of Brienne’s face and turned to look at Sansa instead. “What is she doing here?”

“She is a knight in my service,” Sansa said, drawing herself up to her full height. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Petyr munching away on his apple as he watched them all. 

Stannis closed his eyes for a moment. It looked rather like he would have liked to keep them closed, but he opened them again after a brief moment, his expression irritated.

“You realise this woman killed me,” he said, giving her a piercing look.

Sansa was reminded of the way those same eyes had appeared when he had first awoken. _Cold and dead._

Pushing the uncomfortable memory aside, Sansa steeled herself. “I do realise that, Your Grace. But that was before she entered my service. I assure you I would not have approved such an action on her part.”

“My lady?” Brienne still looked shocked and horrified. “You bent the knee to this man?”

Sansa blinked at Brienne and tried to remember if she had ever officially knelt at Stannis’ feet. She could not recall ever doing it. A glance at Stannis told Sansa that he was aware of this lapse, and none too pleased with it.

“King Robert had no trueborn children. King Stannis is the proper heir to the Iron Throne,” Sansa said, sidestepping Brienne’s question.

“King Renly was the rightful king,” Brienne argued, her eyes narrowing.

Stannis hissed like an angry serpent, his face contorting into a mask of fury.

Sansa hurried to speak before he had a chance to order Brienne executed for treason. “I know you supported Renly’s claim,” she said, “but Renly’s claim was false. The only right he had to the Iron Throne would have been the right of conquest, and he lost the war.”

“Renly Baratheon was a good man,” Brienne said. 

_She is as stubborn as a mule._ Sansa had been given cause to be grateful for that stubbornness in the past, but it was a problem now. _I wish I had left with Sandor. Or that I could hang back and eat an apple with Petyr._

“I’m sure he was,” Sansa said, attempting to soothe Brienne’s ruffled feathers with her tone, “but so was my father. And my father supported King Stannis’ claim. He did not try to take the throne for himself, even though he would certainly have been a kind and just ruler. He understood that there are _laws._ ”

_What would have stopped every second son in the kingdom from trying to steal the lordship from their older brothers if Renly had been successful in setting such an example?_

“My brother was a fool,” Stannis said, both angry and bitter, “he thought war would be like a tournament. That being king would be an amusing diversion that would allow him to wear fine clothing and do as he pleased.”

“He was your _brother,_ ” Brienne said, full of righteous fire, “and you killed him. I saw it happen. The shadow that murdered Renly had _your face._ ”

Sansa felt her eyebrows rise up high. Stannis had killed his own brother? Using some sort of magic? She looked at Stannis. In the last weeks, she had grown comfortable with the man. 

_He ordered his own daughter burnt,_ she thought, feeling sick. His regret seemed genuine, but …

A small smile touched Petyr’s lips. He took another bite of the apple. 

“My brother wanted to kill me on the battlefield, wasting thousands of lives in the attempt.” Stannis sounded sure of himself, but tired. Exhausted. “All because it did not suit him to do his _duty._ ”

Sansa’s stomach flipped. She remembered what Stannis had told her when she had questioned him about the murder of his daughter.

_”Melisandre’s magic had worked for me in the past. Thousands of lives were spared because of her. I thought it would be the same this time. I thought I was sacrificing one precious life to save thousands.”_

That one life had been his brother’s.

“Was it his duty to die?” Brienne asked, her voice shaking.

“NO!” 

Stannis’ voice echoed around the Great Hall, and Sansa was surprised by his sudden vehemence. Pain flashed in his eyes, and his hands had curled into fists. Sansa was sure that had he been near a table, he would have slammed his fists down. 

“It was his duty to support me. To support and obey me like I always supported and obeyed Robert. Because that is what family _does._ ”

Brienne looked taken aback, but her mulish expression was not quite gone. “Perhaps he would have supported and obeyed you had you been worthy of the support and the obedience,” she said. “If you had been a man worthy of having songs sung of him.”

“Foolish woman,” Stannis spat, “life is not a _song._ ”

Sansa knew he had not directed his words at her, but they brought with them a melancholy ache that she felt deep in her bones. She looked to Petyr, and saw his face suddenly sad. His hand with the apple fell by his side. _Once, he believed in songs, too. He thought he might be as worthy as any man of greater birth, if he had the courage._

“Who decides who is worthy of songs and who is not?” Sansa said, ignoring the ache and attempting to help her lady knight see reason.

“My lady … King Renly was willing to take me into his service, even though I was a woman. Even though every other man laughed at me. Even though they thought my deeds were a joke -- thought I was a joke. To Renly, my deeds were as brave and valuable as those of any man.”

Sansa swallowed hard. _I won the battle of Winterfell,_ she thought. _And they named Jon King in the North. I love Jon, but …the plan was mine, the execution was mine, the victory was mine. And now they will name Bran Lord of Winterfell, and set me aside._

Stannis barked out a mocking sound that was too bitter to sound anything like laughter. “You should have known your place.”

There was a moment of stillness. Sansa looked to Brienne, and then to Petyr. So strange, for three people so different to have a moment of accord. 

_But it doesn’t matter. I have to live in this world, not some perfect one._

Sansa took a breath. “King Stannis has already paid for his crimes with his life. You saw to that. Let that be enough.”

Brienne’s mulish expression did not fade. Behind her, Petyr glared at Stannis. 

“Your lady mother was in my presence in King Renly’ tent when Stannis murdered him. She was there because your brother wanted an alliance with Renly -”

“Your mother wanted Renly and me to join forces,” Stannis interrupted. “She wanted us both to work with your brother in order to defeat the Lannisters. I offered to name Renly as my heir if he would only support me.”

Sansa couldn’t bear it. It hurt to think about what might have happened if Renly had not tried to take the crown for himself. How much better everything might have been. Robb might have been able to storm the Red Keep with the full might of the Baratheon forces behind him and rescue her like she had hoped and dreamed… _Why did Renly try to take the crown? Why couldn’t he have supported his older brother like he should have?_

“My mother is dead,” Sansa said, trying to keep her emotions under control. “Two of my brothers are dead, too.” She meet Brienne’s eyes fiercely. “Will your quarrel with King Stannis bring them back?”

Brienne frowned at the floor. “No, my lady.”

Sansa nodded and turned to face Stannis. “Your Grace,” she began, trying to gather her thoughts as quickly as she could, “I would like to keep Lady Brienne as a knight in my service, but I understand that you might wish for some assurances that she will not attempt to harm you again.” 

Sansa took a deep breath, and slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself to her knees. She kept her eyes trained on Stannis the whole time.

Stannis’ eyes widened slightly, and his face - already flushed with anger - reddened still more. 

“Let it be heard,” she said, looking up at Stannis, “that I, Lady Sansa, born of House Stark, descended from House Tully of the Riverlands, acknowledge Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, as King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.” Sansa conveniently forgot to mention anything about the number of kingdoms Stannis ruled, “To be Robert Baratheon’s true heir and the rightful claimant to the Iron Throne.”

Stannis swallowed noticeably, but made a curt hand gesture that indicated that he wished her to rise. She gave his hand a pointed look, and after a brief moment of blank staring, Stannis tentatively held it out to assist her. She rewarded him with a demure smile. 

He dropped her hand very fast as soon as she was on her feet.

Sansa hoped her choice of words was enough to keep the situation from becoming complicated for Jon in the future, and she also hoped that she had managed to gain a valuable ally in the present moment. Her acknowledgement of Stannis would hopefully also convince Brienne to abandon her quarrel with him.

“I accept your choice, my lady," Brienne said, through clenched teeth. “But I will not stay here if he is to remain. I cannot.” 

Stannis made another harsh and mocking sound, but didn’t say anything.

“Perhaps you would like to accompany me to my solar?” Sansa suggested, feeling that she might make more progress with Brienne if they were to speak to each other in private. “You must have news from the riverlands to share. I am eager to hear an account of your travels.”

Brienne agreed, and with a parting nod at Stannis and a fleeting glance at Petyr, Sansa led her lady knight to her solar.

They were quiet as they walked, and Brienne seemed tense and on edge. Once they were in Sansa’s solar, Sansa did what she could to see to Brienne’s comfort, but many of Sansa’s courtesies simply seemed to fluster Brienne. She did not relax significantly until Sansa managed to get her talking about her journey and her task.

After hearing Brienne’s account of what happened in Riverrun, Sansa had to work very hard in order to keep her shoulder from slumping. The Lannisters had taken Riverrun and doubtlessly killed the Blackfish. The Freys and the Lannisters controlled her Uncle Edmure, and there was precious little she could do to help him.

 _But I have to try,_ Sansa thought to herself. She knew what it was like to be a helpless prisoner of war.

“Would you be willing to go back?” Sansa asked Brienne, trying to keep her voice from shaking as the memories of her time in King’s Landing swirled in her mind. The beatings from the Kingsguard had been nothing compared to what she had suffered at Ramsay’s hands, but she would never forget what it had been like to be the Lannisters’ prisoner. To be forced to renounce her family, made to wed Lord Tyrion, be required to act the silly little fool, to bow and scrape and _suffocate..._

Even now she could feel an echo of that constant pressure on her chest, and she took a deep breath -- just to prove to herself that she could. _I’m free now. I’m free._

“Back?” Brienne asked, a flash of hope in her eyes. “To the riverlands?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, squaring her shoulders. “I should like you to attempt to rescue my Uncle Edmure.”

“What about Arya?” Brienne asked, looking hesitant.

“No one has the slightest idea where she might be,” Sansa said. “I know where Edmure is. I know he’s in trouble. I can’t stand by and do nothing to help him. Please, if you can, could you bring him here?”

“I only barely escaped…” Brienne said, trailing off and giving Sansa an uncertain look.

“The battle is over now,” Sansa said, “most of the Lannister men will have gone, and the rest are sworn to my uncle. If you get him away from the Freys, and to a loyal house, you should be safe.”

 _Please. I want someone to come for my uncle. Nobody came for me._

_Nobody but Petyr._

Brienne stood up from her seat. “I will leave at once, my lady.”

Sansa was surprised at Brienne’s sudden enthusiasm, but she managed not to show it. “Thank you, my lady. I appreciate your willingness, but I must insist that you rest before you go. You’ve had such a long journey. Surely you must want to sleep in a proper bed?”

Eventually Brienne was persuaded that it would be wise to rest for a while before setting off again. Sansa promised that Brienne would not be required to speak to Stannis, and asked a maid to show Brienne to the most comfortable available chambers.

Once alone, Sansa finally allowed her shoulders to slump. Brienne’s return had forced her hand. She had been compelled to kneel at Stannis’ feet and declare for him in a way that Sansa had been hoping to postpone. But it had been the only viable move on the board. She couldn’t do what she wanted to do. She couldn’t chase after Sandor or eat apples with Petyr. She had a duty to Winterfell and duty to her father’s memory.

_Is this what Father would have wanted?_

She closed her eyes and tried to shut the world out, but her thoughts came from within, and they were relentless.


	10. The Bathing Pools

_King Stannis,_

_My sister had told me of your return and I wanted to write to you and wish you a speedy recovery._

_You know the threat that waits for us beyond the Wall. You know about the dragonglass. I have since discovered that Valyrian steel works to kill the Others as well. I have sent Samwell Tarly to Oldtown to gather more information. Hopefully there are more ways to fight them. But the situation is dire. The Wall is under attack._

_I need your help. The realm needs you. Please, come to the Wall as soon as you are able._

_Respectfully,_  
_Jon Snow, King in the North_

***

_Lord Snow,_

_I noticed that you signed your letter as King in the North. As I was dead when you were proclaimed as such, I will not count it as treason. Now that I have returned to life, however, I expect you to bend the knee to your rightful king. Your half sister, Lady Sansa, has already knelt and acknowledged me as the rightful King of Westeros._

_I am still recovering from my recent death - I’m sure you will understand - and will stay in Winterfell until I am fit to travel. I intend to join you and your army at the Wall as soon as I am able._

_Keep me appraised._

_By my hand,_  
_Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

***

It had been weeks since Stannis woke up with Lady Sansa’s hands on his foot, and though Stannis had recovered much of his strength, he still did not feel perfectly hale. Sometimes he wondered if he ever would. He had been dead for a long time before Melisandre saw fit to bring him back. Maybe he would always feel a bit… off.

The thought unsettled him, and he did not like to dwell on it. But he could not escape his thoughts about the choices that had led to his death.

How had it all gone so wrong?

It had been hard to explain his reasons to Lady Sansa when she had questioned him. Hard and painful. It had all seemed so inevitable at the time. It had seemed as if his only choice had been to march relentlessly onwards and do as the Red Woman counseled.

Not so.

He had known it at the time. Deep down. That’s why he had sent Davos away. He had known Davos would have tried to stop him.

 _Will Davos ever speak to me again?_ He had received no word from his Hand, and Stannis was beginning to doubt he ever would.

Stannis was certain few men had seen fit to destroy themselves and everything they cared for in as spectacular a way as he had.

 _Perhaps I should have been left for dead._ Most would have. That maddening Sandor Clegane had decided to pull Stannis from the fires and carry him to safety at Winterfell. Melisandre believed she was doing the bidding of her god … Stannis understood her thinking, even if it affronted him. But Clegane … he had thought Clegane a brute. No more than a Lannister dog.

_Why did he save me?_

Stannis pulled his heavy fur cloak closer, trying to keep the freezing air from touching his neck. He was following a path in the snow, one he probably would not have found if he hadn’t been trying to avoid Lord Baelish. The former master of coin seemingly popped out of nowhere, clearly trying to get Stannis alone, doubtless in the service of one of his schemes. Stannis had been forced to duck down this little-used way to escape Baelish. He was not really minding his surroundings as his thoughts occupied most of his attention.

The Tarth woman’s words were echoing inside his head.

_Kinslayer._

_Renly Baratheon was a good man._

Renly had been a good _boy,_ but Stannis could not see how Renly had been a good man. He had done the Tarth woman no favours in encouraging her delusions, to Stannis’ mind. The girl would have been better off matched to a man who would treat her with respect -- and with a good lord who would intervene if that respect was not forthcoming. He snorted to himself. A good man. A good man would have made the honourable, _dutiful_ choice. A good man would not have tried to wage a war with his own brother rather than support him.

 _Why, Renly?_ Stannis thought, feeling his heart ache inside his chest. _Why did you betray me?_

It had not been right to use Melisandre’s repugnant magic to kill Renly the way he had, but Stannis did not know if he would make a different choice if he could go back and do it all over again. Renly’s death had saved thousands of lives.

Unlike Shireen’s.

Stannis stopped walking and struggled with the urge to fall to his knees and weep. Weeping would not bring her back. She was gone forever. Burnt. All for _nothing._

_”It was not for nothing, Your Grace. I believe the power of her sacrifice delayed the onset of winter for a few crucial months and allowed me to resurrect both Jon Snow and yourself.”_

The memory of Melisandre’s words did not ease the pain. If anything, the pain in his chest became sharper.

_I don’t want my life at the price of my daughter’s._

Stannis started walking again, hoping to somehow leave his thoughts in the snow behind him. He stared down at his feet, blindly following a path someone else had made.

“Your Grace?!”

Stannis stopped again and looked up at his surroundings. He had wandered into a clearing. Natural hot springs welled up in this place, creating warm pools that melted the snow around their banks.

Lady Sansa was submerged in one. He could see the pristine skin of her neck and her shoulders where they peeked out of the water, and before he hurriedly tore his eyes away, he thought he also saw her teats, slightly distorted by the water. Her hair was dry and pinned to her head to keep the fiery locks from escaping. She was _troublingly_ beautiful. He felt his blood heat up and rush to his face and to his… other places... as if he were as besotted with her as the other poor fools in the keep.

He wasn’t. She was just undressed, and this was… improper.

He shifted from foot to foot.

“What are you doing here? At these hours, the pools are for the use of the women.”

Stannis sprang back, not wishing to be scolded.

“Then you should put up a sign,” he said, accusingly.

“There is a sign!”

 _Oh. Oh no._ That was entirely possible, Stannis had to admit to himself. He had been taken by surprise by Lord Baelish, and had not looked carefully where he had been going. _Damnable man, this is all his fault._

“Why are you out here alone?” he barked, hoping to conceal his embarrassment by drawing her attention to her egregious lack of security.

Sansa blinked at him as if he had just asked her a very dimwitted question. “I am _bathing,_ Your Grace.”

“I see that,” he bit out, even as he did his best to look at the nearby trees and not at the curve of her slender neck. “Why do you not have a maid with you? Or the Cassel girl? You should not be here by yourself.”

“I do not answer to you. Do not think to judge me. I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

The implied defiance rankled. Furious, caught on the spot, Stannis lashed out. “If you say so. You have earned the title twice, Lady Bolton.”

The colour drained from her cheeks. Sansa’s face went still. “What did you call me?”

“The name of the husband you wed of your own free will.” Stannis didn’t like the direction of this conversation, but he did not intend to back down before this … _girl._

There was a long silence between them.

“Would you like to know what happened on my wedding night?” Sansa asked, her voice barely a whisper. “I asked you once, and you claimed it wasn’t necessary. I think it is.”

The muscles in Stannis’ face tensed.

“Ramsay bent me over my own childhood bed, ripped my dress off, and raped me. He violated me in every way it is possible to violate a human being. But that was not the worst. He had Theon Greyjoy watch the entire time."

Sansa stopped and took a steadying breath. Her eyes were ablaze with emotion, but when she spoke again her voice was sharp as steel.

“At the time, I believed Theon to have killed my younger brothers. Do you know what it’s like to be ripped apart and humiliated in the worst possible way by the men who are responsible for murdering half your family?”

“Enough,” Stannis said, his voice cracking. He felt horrified. Ramsay’s reputation had preceded him, but the depravity Sansa was describing was beyond anything Stannis had imagined.

“It was not enough, though,” Sansa said, her voice cold and distant. “Ramsay raped me every night for so long that I lost track of time. He kept me locked in my chambers. _My own chambers._ ” She paused, clearly attempting to calm herself, but her voice shook a little when she continued. Her pain seemed almost palpable in the air around them, and Stannis ‘ stomach writhed uncomfortably. “He beat me and _tortured_ me. He talked of having his hounds rape me. He… he threatened to use _knives_ to -”

“Stop,” Stannis said, feeling bile rise up to his throat. “I order you to stop.”

Sansa stopped.

Stannis stared at her.

The silence was heavy in the air between them.

“I … apologise for not granting you your title, Lady Stark.”

She nodded.

There was another moment of silence.

“To answer your question, it is freezing,” Sansa said, her tone matter of fact. “I could not in good conscience ask anyone to stand by in the cold while I soak in the warm water. I’m here nearly every other day. Believe me, it’s quite safe.”

Stannis clenched his jaw and gave a small nod.

“I hope you do not stay out for too long, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “you’ll catch cold.”

He understood when he was being dismissed, and though it rankled that she thought she could dismiss him - he was her _king_ \- he was also relieved for the excuse to nod, turn around, and flee.


	11. Cockfight

“Why are you still here?” Lord Baelish asked, looking at Stannis from his seat in the library.

“I just arrived,” Stannis said, furrowing his brow. He was restless, and he had decided to come to the library to see if there were any books in the shelves that might interest him. Lady Sansa had told him that Lord Baelish had taken it upon himself to sort through books that had survived Winterfell’s tribulations, but Stannis hadn’t expected the man to be lurking in there still. “I was looking for a book.”

“Why are you still in _Winterfell?_ ” Baelish clarified.

Stannis scowled at him. Lord Baelish was partly to blame for Stannis’ reluctance to leave for the Wall despite Snow’s increasingly urgent letters. Lady Sansa had told him how Baelish was pursuing her hand in marriage, and Stannis still could not quite express his distaste for Littlefinger’s presumption. Lady Sansa was far too good for the likes of _Baelish._ She had been betrothed to the crown prince, and rightly so. Baelish might be Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Protector of the Vale, but he was still of absurdly low birth compared to Lady Sansa.

“I could ask you the same question,” Stannis said, narrowing his eyes.

“I am not a military man,” Baelish said, with a humble shrug of his shoulders. “I am here to advise Lady Stark and aid her as she rebuilds her home.”

From what Sansa had told Stannis, Baelish vexed her more than he aided her.

“What of the army you led to the north from the Vale?” Stannis asked, raising an eyebrow. “You commanded them, did you not?”

“Lord Robert Arryn is too young to ride to war. He asked me to ride forth with his men in his stead. I could hardly refuse.”

“Did he also ask you to abandon the men in order to sort through books?”

“Lord Arryn also asked me to keep an eye on his cousin Sansa. He loves her dearly.”

 _How convenient._ Stannis ground his teeth together and wondered whether to prolong this absurd conversation.

No. He would not. Baelish was a schemer, but his plots came to nothing more often than not. Stannis would not waste time trading barbs with the former master of coin. He was above that.

“I’ll leave you to your books, Lord Baelish,” Stannis said, his tone far from polite.

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Baelish said, snapping a volume he had been holding shut and tilting his head to the side. “Lady Sansa.”

The curve of a slender, milk-white neck flashed before Stannis’ eyes, and he felt his blood warm in his cheeks.

“She is clever, too. A rare mind. Most men do not see that. She needs a strong husband. Her equal. Someone who will treat her the way she deserves to be treated,” Baelish went on, staring fixedly at Stannis. “Someone who can understand her. Someone worthy.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes at Baelish. Did he really believe himself to be the ideal candidate? It was absurd. Without saying a single word, Stannis walked back to the main doors of the library, turning his back on Littlefinger. 

“She is too good for the likes of you,” Stannis shot back over his shoulder, his voice cool. “As was her mother.”

***

It was late, and Stannis supposed he ought to be sleeping. But sleep did not come easily after everything that had happened in the past year, and nightmares plagued him whenever he did manage to shut his eyes.

Instead of lying in bed and tormenting himself with the memories of his daughter’s screams, he was walking around the dimly lit corridors of the Great Keep. Hardly anyone was awake at this hour, though the occasional servant scurried about. The servants paid him no mind. They were used to his nightly walks.

When Stannis passed the Great Hall he was surprised to see a light inside, so he went to investigate. As soon as he drew near the source he regretted the decision.

“Clegane,” he said, unable to disguise his distaste for the man. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m having a drink, _Your Grace._ ” Somehow Clegane made the honorific sound like a foul curse.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Aye. What of it?”

“You’re a drunk.”

“And you’re a king.”

Stannis bristled at the disrespectful tone of Clegane’s voice. “Watch your tongue,” he warned, narrowing his eyes.

But Stannis couldn’t help but notice that Clegane was the second person to freely acknowledge him as king since his resurrection. 

“Or what?” Clegane challenged, rising up from the bench he had been sitting on and drawing himself up to his full, imposing height.

Stannis refused to back away or betray a sign of weakness. Clegane had a bit of height on him, true, and a fair bit of weight, but Stannis was sober and no lightweight himself in the fighting rings. He was no fool, of course -- he had seen the Hound fight in the training yard and in melees, and he knew the man’s deadly skill. But he stood a chance, if it came to a fight. 

He hoped it would not come to a fight.

“Or I’ll have Lady Stark cut you off,” Stannis bit out. 

“The little bird doesn’t mind that I drink,” Clegane said with a humourless laugh.

Stannis did not understand why Clegane always referred to Lady Sansa as a little bird, but it irritated him. It was presumptuous of someone of Clegane’s station to refer to her without using her proper title.

“Do not speak of Lady Sansa with such disrespect.”

The Hound grunted and sat back down to pour more of the vile swill in his tankard down his throat. “You and Baelish are both the same,” he muttered.

“Must I tell you again to watch your tongue?” Stannis hissed, feeling insulted by the comparison. He was nothing like Baelish. Nothing.

“I’m just telling the bloody truth. I thought you liked the truth? Or do you only like it when it suits you?”

“What truth?” Stannis snapped. He did like truth, but he had had no patience for riddles.

“You and Baelish both watch her like vultures. You’re greedy for her company and her smiles. I know Baelish wants to fuck her, and more, but from what I’ve heard you wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she was dumped in your bed naked, greased up, and spread-eagled.” The Hound took a swill from his tankard. “But maybe you finally found your cock?”

Stannis’ blood rushed to his face. He was reddening with anger. Just anger.

“You speak as if you don’t follow her with your eyes and sniff at her skirts whenever she’s in your presence,” Stannis shot back.

Clegane tipped his tankard back and drank deeply until it was empty.

“Maybe I could have fucked her a long time ago, if that’s all I wanted,” Clegane said with a hint of a growl to his voice. 

Stannis scowled at the delusional man, wondering how many tankards he had emptied. “Lady Sansa could never wed someone of your station,” he said, not bothering to hide his derision.

“Who said anything about marriage? People don’t have to be married to fuck.”

“Highborn ladies -”

“Cersei Lannister is a highborn lady.”

Stannis ground his teeth at the mention of his late brother’s wife. “Cersei Lannister is a whore.” A disgraced one, at that. He had heard she had been paraded through the streets of the city -- an apt punishment for her crimes. Stannis doubted she had been chastised, though. 

Silence fell in the vast hall as the two men glared at each other. The candle next to Clegane’s tankard flickered restlessly.

“The way I see it,” Clegane said, disturbing the quiet and pouring himself a new drink, “no one deserves to touch Lady Sansa. Not you, not Baelish, and not I. She is… special.”

Stannis scoffed. “She is a mere woman. Not the Maiden reborn.” Somehow his words did not come out quite as convincing as he had meant them to. He hurried to continue. “She will have to wed someone and birth Stark heirs.”

“Maybe,” Clegane muttered into his tankard, “maybe not.”

“Make your meaning clear.” Conversing with Clegane was starting to remind Stannis of conversing with Robert. Was it his fate to always be surrounded by drunken imbeciles?

“Her younger brother, Lord Stark, might be a cripple, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be able to stick his prick in a woman. A man doesn’t fuck with his legs.”

Stannis grimaced. Perhaps he should not have asked Clegane to make his meaning quite that clear.

“Even so, the Starks can ill afford to place all their eggs in one basket. It would be best if both Lady Sansa and Lord Stark were to produce as many children as they are able.”

Stannis was suddenly struck by the absurd nature of his current situation. Here he was, in near darkness in the middle of the night, speaking to a drunken Sandor Clegane in the Great Hall at Winterfell, discussing the way two nobles ought to breed in the future as if he were some sort of clucking hen. 

“This is all ridiculous. You should go to sleep,” he said, turning around and preparing to leave Clegane to his tankard of swill. _Go to sleep and forget this conversation ever took place._

“Why did you do it?” Clegane asked, his voice a little slurred. There was anger in his tone however, and something else Stannis couldn’t comprehend.

“Do what?” Stannis asked, looking over his shoulder at the Hound, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“ _Shireen._ ”

Stannis stopped looking over his shoulder. He looked straight ahead and clenched his jaw. 

“I do not answer to the likes of you,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. _Know your place, Hound._

The sound of screams rang in his ears.

Sandor barked out a mirthless laugh. “I thought you were less of a cunt than your brothers. Never thought you were worse.”

It took a great deal of restraint not to turn around and do something violent, but Stannis did it. Instead of throttling Clegane, he took a breath and strode off. 

_Clegane’s opinion means nothing. He means nothing._

_Shireen..._


	12. News From the South

Stannis was in the training courtyard, scowling at the piles of snow that were making it impossible for him to practise his footwork. Whenever he took a step his boot sank down to the knee and refused to budge unless Stannis exerted quite a lot of strength to free himself.

“Your Grace.”

Stannis turned his head. His mood improved when he saw that it was the Cassel girl who had addressed him. She probably had a message from Sansa.

“Yes?”

“Lady Sansa asks that you join her in her solar.”

His breathing became a little quicker. “Any particular reason?”

“I believe it has something to do with the raven that arrived this morning,” the girl said, tilting her head to the side. “Are you well?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Stannis bit out, wondering what had prompted the girl to ask. “I can find my own way to Lady Sansa’s solar. You’re dismissed.”

He ground his teeth when he heard the girl _giggle_ as she disappeared back into the Great Keep.

Stannis realised as he made his way up the first staircase that he had managed to get snow into his boots. It was melting and causing him rather a lot of discomfort. Hopefully his meeting with Sansa would be short. He wanted to go to his chambers and change into fresh socks.

When he arrived in Lady Sansa’s solar to find that Lord Baelish was in attendance, his mood soured further. Wet socks _and_ Lord Baelish. This was not a good day.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, nodding at him in greeting. “Please have a seat.”

Stannis sat as far from Baelish as he could. He glared at the man. Sansa waited until Sannis was settled before speaking again. 

“Lord Baelish has some news to share,” she said. “Petyr?” she prompted, looking to the odious man. 

Stannis glanced at Baelish and noticed that there was something odd about the man’s face. He looked over at Sansa. Her countenance was a mask, revealing nothing. It gave Stannis pause.

“What has happened?” he asked, glaring at Baelish and willing him to start speaking at once.

“Cersei,” Baelish said. His voice was soft. He seemed … stunned. “Cersei has used wildfire to destroy her enemies in King’s Landing. The Great Sept of Baelor is gone. King Tommen is dead. Queen Margaery is dead. Mace Tyrell, the High Septon and all the authorities of the Faith … dead. Cersei sits on the Iron Throne.”

Stannis felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach shrink until it seemed to have disappeared, leaving his insides feeling empty. He probably looked as ashen as Baelish now.

“Who told you this?” Stannis asked, doing his best to collect his wits.

“I have reliable spies all over the Seven Kingdoms,” Baelish said, a ghost of his usual smugness touching his lips for less than a second.

“Cersei can’t be allowed to rule,” Sansa said, her voice quiet but firm. “She is a danger to the smallfolk. To us all.”

“She is mad,” Littlefinger said, his face twisting into a grimace of distaste.

“For the past several decades Westeros has been ruled by madmen and drunks,” Stannis muttered. “This cannot go on, or the realm will be a wasteland.” And then his mind caught up with his ears.

 _Tommen is dead. He is dead. That means_ …”I am King. The rightful king.” _Indisputably._

“Once the people of the land learn you burnt your only heir and lead your army to destruction, they’ll hardly think you’re much better than Cersei. She at least has a pretty pair of teats from what I hear.”

Stannis wondered whether Lady Stark would frown at him if he strangled Littlefinger.

“Is there anything we can do about Cersei at the moment?” Sansa asked, distracting Stannis from his murderous fantasy. He could not help but notice, however, that she had not affirmed Stannis’ right to the throne in light of this new information.

_Nobody could doubt it now._

“We would need to march south with an army to enact any sort of change,” Baelish said at once, colour returning to his cheeks.

Sansa closed her eyes and nodded. When she opened them again there was a determined glint in those blue depths. “Then we do nothing.”

“Nothing?” Baelish looked disappointed.

_Nothing?!_

“We can’t call the army back from the Wall. We’ll all die if the white walkers invade, and then it won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne.”

Baelish got to his feet and started to pace around. “Snarks, grumkins, and white walkers. These are stories, my lady. I’m sure your brother just needs the army to establish order and fix the mess he made with the wildlings.”

“My brother is not a liar,” Sansa said, standing up from her desk and glaring daggers at Baelish.

“Well, perhaps he thinks he’s telling the truth,” Baelish said, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “I’m sure it was very frightening to fight in battles beyond the Wall. Giants, wargs and savage wildlings all around…”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sansa was still glaring.

“Sweetling -” Baelish’s voice was honey, cloying and thick. 

“Don’t call me that!”

Stannis frowned. Things were serious, and this is was not productive. “Stop arguing,” he said, raising his voice and sharpening his tone. “Sit down.”

Sansa’s lips became very thin, but she did as he asked and sat down. Baelish followed her example, though he looked similarly displeased.

Stannis got to his feet when they were both sitting. “Cersei must not be allowed to get away with her treason, but we must not leave the realm vulnerable if there is a danger in the north. Lord Baelish and I will go to the Wall and ascertain whether the white walkers are real and a pressing threat to the Seven Kingdoms or not. The army will stay and fight if they are, or sail south to King’s Landing to challenge Cersei’s rule if they are not.”

“Sail?” Baelish raised an eyebrow. “Using what ships?”

“My ships,” Stannis said. “They ought to be anchored at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

Sansa nodded slowly. “That seems a reasonable plan, Your Grace.” 

Baelish lowered his raised eyebrow and nodded, too.

“When will you go?” Sansa asked, turning her head to gaze out the window of her solar, clearly surveying the weather. Stannis looked out the window too, and saw that it was snowing heavily.

“Soon.”


	13. A Lord Returns

Sansa knew that Stannis was waiting for the weather to improve by a margin before setting off for the Wall, and often caught him standing by some window or other, a brooding expression on his face and his eyes fixed on some far off point in the distance.

They had not really spoken in private since the day he had found her bathing in the woods, and sometimes Sansa suspected that he was avoiding her. She was determined not to let it bother her, but oddly enough she missed his company. She had grown used to sharing long silences with him when he had been recovering and she had used his chambers as a place to escape the bustle of the castle. There was something about his demeanor that reminded Sansa of both her father and Jon, and though Stannis certainly scowled a lot more than both her father and her brother, she liked his serious moods.

Sansa smiled to herself and wondered whether Arya would recognise her if she came back to Winterfell today. The girl who had liked songs and handsome knights was buried deep down inside Sansa’s heart. Now she liked men who were exactly what they seemed to be. She was tired of men who wore disguises and told lies.

Presently, Sansa was standing on the battlements where she and Jon had argued over who would sleep where in the castle. She was looking out over a field of snow that was so thick that the path that lead between the winter town and the castle gates seemed more a tunnel than anything else. There was no snow falling from the sky, however, and Sansa knew that it meant that Stannis, Petyr, and Sandor would soon be leaving for the Wall. They would need to take draft horses, sleds, and plenty of food, but they ought to be able to make the journey. Uncle Benjen had done it in the past, Sansa knew. Many men had, without hardship. She should not fear. She told herself that.

Perhaps it was her thought of a sled that caused her eyes to fixate on the strange shape she could see in the distance, but whatever the cause, Sansa was now riveted by the dark thing that seemed to be coming nearer. Had it been any later in the day she doubted she would have seen it, but it was high noon, and the sun did not get any brighter than this in winter.

It was freezing, and Sansa’s every breath came out as a puff of mist. She knew her nose was getting red, and her fingers were becoming stiff where they curled around her fur cloak to keep it tightly wrapped around her. Despite her discomfort she stayed still, her eyes fixed on the growing shape.

Her heart started to beat faster when she realised that she was looking at two men on horseback and a sled being drawn by yet another horse. Someone was coming.

She knew she should alert the captain of the guard, but something kept her from moving. Something told her that the men who were approaching were no threat.

Sansa could no longer feel her fingers by the time she could see who was riding towards her keep, but her long wait had been worth it.

“ _Bran!_ ” she shouted as soon as she was sure, her voice full of emotion. “BRAN!”

***

Sansa had not cried when she had been reunited with Jon. She had wanted to, but she had been too exhausted and overwhelmed to cry.

With Bran everything was different. He was her little brother. He had been in a coma when she had last seen him, and she had not known whether he would live when she had left. Now he was in front of her: safe, warm, and _there._ He was not the boy she had known, but … she knew him, and he was there, with her. She had thought that after all these years apart, everything that had happened, she would not know him.

And then he had been lifted down from the special saddle on the horse to where she stood, outwardly calm, inwardly terrified. And he had smiled, and he had been her brother.

“Bran,” she kept saying, “I missed you.”

“Sansa,” Bran said in return, tears in his voice, too. “Sansa.”

As Bran did not have the use of his legs, he was ensconced in a chair. Sansa knew they probably looked very strange -- crying and shaking and clinging to one another. For once in her life she did not care about appearances, however.

Anyway, she had asked everyone to leave them be for a little while.

Eventually she had no more tears to shed. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, touching Bran’s familiar face and noticing how the years had changed him. He was almost a man grown.

“I’m here, Sansa.”

“You’re so grown up,” she said, her words coming out a bit strangely since her nose was completely stuffed up.

“I’m grown up?” Bran’s voice sounded like he was stuffed up, too. “You’re the one who grew up! You look like Mother.” There was both laughter and sadness in his tone.

Sansa understood. It filled her with joy to see that Bran had survived into adulthood, but she hadn’t been there to see it happen, and it was a saddening realisation. She knew he had to feel the same way about her.

They talked of inconsequential things that afternoon, not wishing to destroy the happiness of their reunion with talk of war and white walkers. They were both aware of the ghosts in the room: Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon, and the question that was Arya’s fate. Sansa knew they would have to speak of more serious matters soon, but for a few hours they were alone with their memories of happier times. There was order and peace, and it was everything Sansa could have dreamed.

But dreams never lasted, and all too soon Bran was telling her _everything._

She managed to keep her tears at bay even when Bran explained how Theon had betrayed Robb and forced Bran, Rickon, Hodor and Osha to flee, and she managed to keep calm as Bran told her the story of how he had made it to the Wall and beyond it to the north, how they had fled from wights, lost Jojen Reed, and found refuge with the three-eyed raven. But when Bran explained what had happened to Hodor, even though Sansa didn’t quite understand how it was possible, she broke down.

Had Hodor really spent his whole life knowing how he would die? Had he just been _waiting?_

“Hodor didn’t deserve that,” Sansa whispered.

“His name was Wylis,” Bran said. “And he’s dead because of me.”

Sansa hugged Bran tightly. “You did what you had to do to survive,” she said after a while, repeating the words that she had repeated to herself so often before. Those words had kept her from going mad.

“He was a good person,” Bran mumbled, his voice muffled due to the way Sansa was still hugging him. “Why did he have to die so I could go on living? I’m not better than he was.”

Sansa moved away and looked Bran in the eyes. “Don’t go down that road,” she said. “You can’t change it now, and feeling guilty won’t bring him back. All we can do is honour his memory and his sacrifice.”

Bran nodded, but he still looked rather miserable.

“What happened next?” she asked gently after a while, prompting her brother to finish his story. By the time Bran had finished telling her about Uncle Benjen and the Tower of Joy, she almost wished that she hadn’t.

“Jon is Aunt Lyanna’s son?” She couldn’t believe it. Why would her father have lied about such a thing? Why would he have hurt her mother by saying Jon was his bastard if he was really Lyanna’s son?

_The lie I begged him to tell wasn’t his first…_

“I’m sure of it,” Bran said.

“Did you tell Jon?”

“Of course.”

“How did he take it?” Sansa’s mind was reeling, and she couldn’t imagine how Jon must have felt.

 _I need brothers, and Bran tells me the only other one I have isn’t a brother at all?_ She mentally shook herself. _Jon is my brother. Forever._

“He was glad to find out who his mother was, but he couldn’t understand why Father didn’t tell the truth. I think he was really hurt.”

 _Poor Jon,_ Sansa thought, her heart going out to him. “Did you see who Jon’s real father is?”

“Not really, but it’s obvious if you think about it,” Bran said. “Father wouldn’t lie about something like that for no good reason.” 

And suddenly it all fell into place. “Jon’s father was Rhaegar Targaryen,” Sansa said. She felt suddenly numb, and her stomach flipped. _Rhaegar, the man who took Lyanna. The man who raped her._

That was why her father had lied. The only thing that could have driven him to such extremes. Everyone knew what had happened to the last of the Targaryens after the rebellion. The ones that hadn’t managed to escape across the Narrow Sea had been murdered, the children’s corpses laid before the Iron Throne.

“Did you tell Jon about this, too?” Sansa asked.

“He figured it out,” Bran said. “He was … shaken. He asked me not to tell anyone except you.”

“Good,” Sansa said at once. 

She pressed her hand to her lips. Lyanna’s son. She must have died in childbirth. What must Jon be thinking now? _We all grew up playing around her tomb. Jon never knew she was his mother._

_He never knew that he was the cause of her death. Oh Jon._

“We should not speak of it again unless it is absolutely necessary. The walls have ears,” Sansa added, searching Bran’s face for a reaction to her words. Jon had been made King in the North because he was Ned Stark’s son, his only son known to be alive. Sansa didn’t know what the northern lords would think if they learned the truth.

“You’re right,” Bran said, his expression determined. “No one needs to know except us. And - I mean, Meera knows. She was with me when I saw the vision, so she found out. But she won’t tell anyone. We can trust her.”

Sansa hoped Jon would have someone he could trust as he came to terms with the terrible truth about his birth.

***

Sansa felt brittle and exhausted as she left the chambers that she had hastily arranged for Bran. It was late, and dark, and she wanted her bed. She wanted to curl up under the covers, and weep, and not tears of joy this time.

She nearly screamed from shock when Petyr stepped out of the shadows into her path. 

“Have you found out whether your brother will be able to sire heirs?” Petyr asked.

Sansa stopped walking and stared at Petyr. “I beg your pardon?”

“You were talking to him for most of the afternoon. Surely you obtained this crucial bit of information?”

“I don’t see how it is any of your concern,” Sansa said, using her most dismissive tone of voice. “And how, precisely, would you expect the topic to come up in conversation?”

“Oh, well, there are ways of working around to the topic. If you could at least find out where on his back the injury is and where the loss of sensation starts, I could probably make an educated guess. And if he is having difficulties, I have employed women who have experience in the area. It is quite interesting -- the transition zone between the areas of sensation and numbness can become an arousal zone--”

Sansa held up her hand. “I didn’t find out,” she said from between gritted teeth. 

Petyr did not walk away. “I leave for the Wall tomorrow,” he said instead, his eyes full of something indiscernible.

“I know,” Sansa said. A part of her looked forward to having him gone -- to having all three of them gone, and Winterfell peaceful again. But she also felt a pang of fear. With Petyr gone, there would be no one to run to if something horrible happened. No one to help her if she was in need. No one to help her decipher the news from the northern holdings, or bring her tidings of the politics of the south. Petyr was clever, and he had decades of experience in the Game. _I don’t want to need him, but I still do…_

Petyr’s face softened. “I’m sorry if I startled you. Time is short and our resources are few. Information is key. If your brother is able to sire heirs it changes things. It is crucial that we know as much as we can, Sansa.”

“I didn’t ask him. I don’t know.”

Petyr was searching her face for the truth. Eventually he seemed to be satisfied that she really didn’t know the answer to his question.

“Send me a raven as soon as you find out,” Petyr said in a low voice. “And keep me informed of what is happening here, in messages written in the codes I’ve taught you. Will you do that for me, sweetling?”

Sansa wondered what he would do if she told him no. She had a wild desire to do just that. _No. I need to play the Game, and the best move is to keep Petyr as an ally._

“I will,” she said. 

His eyes lit up. He looked so happy at that little agreement, like a boy. “Thank you.” He leaned close. “I will be coming back south soon, with the Vale army,” he told her. “If you are free of your obligations here at Winterfell … Cersei is weak. There are so many possibilities for us in the south, Sansa. The Game--”

Sansa put a hand on his chest. 

“Good night.” 

She ignored the way Petyr’s eyed drifted longingly down to her lips and left him standing by himself.


	14. A King Departs

Sansa woke up from a nightmare in the small hours of the morning, her bedclothes wrapped around her legs, her skin clammy with sweat, and her heart racing. She kicked her legs free in a convulsive movement.

Her nightmares were always the same. Ramsay had her again. She and Jon had lost. She was back in that room .. her childhood bedroom … and the door was opening ...

Shakily, she got to her feet and walked to a table where the servants kept a jug of water for her. She poured herself a cup and drank deeply, wishing that she could wash away the taste of her terror.

Was it the thought of Lyanna Stark all those years ago that had brought this on? She thought of that cold stone face in the crypts and shivered. _She must have known that fear of the door opening in the night, too._

_I thought it was behind me, everything Ramsey did. I thought I was getting better._

Usually she would attempt to go back to sleep, but she knew that was far away tonight, so she decided to go for a walk. She wrapped herself in a robe and a cloak, and placed a worn pair of embroidered slippers on her feet. She opened and closed the door to her chambers as quietly as she could, and wondered where she would be sleeping the following night. She could not continue to sleep in the Lord’s chambers now that Bran had returned, and she could not return to her childhood bedroom. She had not set foot in there since she escaped Ramsey.

She wandered aimlessly down one corridor and then another, lost in her thoughts about how things would change now that Winterfell had a lord. She nearly walked right into someone because she was so distracted, but managed to stop herself short.

“Your Grace,” she said when she realised who it was, not feeling surprised that it was him, but feeling her heart beat faster nonetheless.

“Lady Sansa,” Stannis muttered, barely looking at her. His eyes were focused on the endless expanse of snow outside the window in front of him.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked him, keeping her voice quiet. She did not want to draw the attention of any servants that might be awake.

Stannis grunted.

“Me neither,” she said, planting herself next to him by the window, wondering whether he was looking at something in particular. She couldn’t see what it might be.

They shared a comfortable silence for a little while, but eventually Sansa felt the urge to speak.

“What’s keeping you from your bed, Your Grace?”

Stannis gave her a sharp look that told her he thought it was an insolent question.

“If your injuries are ailing you, there could be remedies that might help.”

“My injuries have healed.”

“Some injuries don’t heal,” Sansa said.

“I’m fine, Lady Stark.”

“Why are you standing here, then?”

“None of your concern.”

Sansa fell quiet at that, but only for a moment. “I’m here because I had a nightmare,” she confessed.

Stannis scowled and turned from the window in order to face her. “Can’t you go and confide in your little friend? The Cassel girl?”

Sansa ignored him. “I dreamt that Jon had failed. I dreamt that Petyr didn’t come. I dreamt that Ramsay had captured me again.”

“Dreams are useless,” Stannis muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the floor.

“Do you ever have bad dreams, Your Grace?” she asked, feeling curious.

“Yes,” he snapped. His expression closed off and forbidding. He clearly did not want to discuss the matter.

 _Shireen,_ Sansa thought. _He must be thinking of what he did to Shireen._

She was silent for a beat, but then the words spilled out of her as if she had been planning to say them for a long time.

“She would have suffered more had she fallen into Ramsay’s hands.”

Stannis tensed up, but he didn’t say anything.

“I would have chosen the fire rather than him,” she added quietly.

Stannis looked around at this, a pained look in his eyes. “I should have left them at the Wall.” His voice was a harsh whisper.

Sansa bowed her head. It seemed too heartless to agree with him out loud.

They fell silent, and Sansa was surprised that it was Stannis who broke it again after a little while.

“My Hand, Lord Davos Seaworth, has not been in any contact.”

“No?” Sansa was surprised. She had noticed that Stannis had been corresponding with someone at the Wall, and she had just assumed it had to be Davos. Presumably, he had been writing to Jon instead.

“He was very… attached to Princess Shireen.” Stannis was looking out the window again, but Sansa did not think he was really taking the view in. There was an ocean of pain in his gaze.

“I’m sure you were attached to her, too,” Sansa said, keeping her tone gentle. “She was _your_ daughter, after all.”

Stannis closed his eyes and leant forward, grabbing onto the window ledge so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Melisandre should not have brought me back,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Sansa didn’t answer him. She was hoping that he would keep talking if she remained silent.

When Stannis spoke again his voice was rougher still, and there was a faraway quality to his tone that made Sansa think that he was talking to himself rather than her. 

“I spent my life trying to make the right choices. Trying to be just, dutiful and righteous. When Robert died and your father sent me that letter…” Stannis trailed off and furrowed his brow. “I never wanted to be king. All I ever wanted was for Robert to recognise my worth and give me my due. All I ever wanted was to be Lord of Storm’s End.”

“What happened?” Sansa asked, fascinated and curious.

“Melisandre came. At first I did not believe in her power, but eventually she showed me a vision… a great battle in the snow. She convinced me that every man, woman and child in Westeros would be doomed if I did not lead the fight in this battle. She claimed I was _chosen._ ” Stannis stopped talking and made a derisive sound. “I was a fool.”

Sansa bit her lip. She did not understand the god Melisandre had called R'hllor, but she understood that his power had brought Jon and Stannis back. If the vision Stannis spoke of had come from this R'hllor, Sansa did not think it should be ignored.

“It might well be that the battle in that vision has yet to pass,” Sansa said, speaking carefully. “Perhaps you were brought back because you do have to lead the men in the coming fight.”

Stannis heaved a sigh, his shoulders tense and his jaw working beneath his close-cropped beard. “I suppose I will find out.”

Feeling hesitant, Sansa reached for Stannis’ shoulder. He gave her hand a sharp look when she touched him, but did not move away. She became braver, and gave his shoulder a consoling squeeze before pulling away. Her heart was pounding.

“I’m going to go back to bed,” she said, willing her heart to slow down, “I hope you will try to get some rest, too. You have a long journey ahead, Your Grace.”

Stannis didn’t say anything to that, but he favoured her with a long, searching look that left Sansa feeling a little unsteady.

Sansa’s nightmares did not continue to plague her once she returned to bed, though the dreams that did come to her were full of confusion and violence on a great field of battle. They did not feel like nightmares, however. She felt untouched by the fighting. She dreamed of knights and heroes with swords drawn, and a banner with a flaming heart sailing above them all.

***

It felt unreal to say goodbye to Stannis, Petyr and Sandor. She sat beside Bran in the Great Hall, and tried to keep her face impassive. Each of the men she was about to send off had troubled her peace, but they had all acted to protect her, too. Each of them understood her, each in their own way. If it hadn’t been for Bran’s presence by her side Sansa would have wanted to weep. 

“May the gods grant you a safe journey, Your Grace,” Bran said, nodding at Stannis.

Stannis nodded in return and gave thanks for the equipment Bran was providing. He looked at Sansa as he spoke, however, and everyone in the Great Hall knew that it was Sansa who had made sure the three men had everything they needed for the trip. 

Petyr was uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. It worried Sansa more than his smirks. _Petyr is thinking._ She didn’t like having him out of her sight. Who knew what he was plotting? What he would do? She no longer feared he would murder Stannis, but ... _He intends to cause chaos. I only hope Jon heeds my warnings._

Strangely, though, it was Sandor whose departure she most dreaded. He stood at the back, looming over the other two and every man in the hall. Sansa found her eyes returning to him over and over while the words were exchanged. _Don’t leave me. You kept me safe once. I don’t want you to leave me now._ Sandor met her eyes, and his gaze sharpened. A troubled line crossed his brow.

Once all the official words had been said, Sansa knew she was supposed to stay in the Great Hall and allow the servants to help the men be on their way, but she was compelled to wrap her fur cloak around her shoulders and brave the frozen courtyard. She wanted to watch them go.

While Stannis and Petyr were busy with their horses and the sled, Sandor walked over to speak to her.

“I reckon you’re relieved,” he said, his voice as rough as ever.

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow at him, and tried not to look _too_ curious.

“Getting rid of those two idiots,” Sandor said, jerking his head at Stannis and Petyr.

“I wish you all a safe journey,” Sansa said noncommittally.

Sandor barked out a sound that might have been laughter. “Of course you do, little bird.” He shifted. “You’ve been troubled since your brother Bran came back.”

For once, Sansa found she didn’t mind his failure to use her proper title.

“All is well,” she said, as lightly as she could. Lyanna’s cold stone face flashed across her eyes. “There is just so much to do. I am glad my brother is back.”

Sandor looked skeptical.

“Thank you for all the work you did on the glass gardens. We will be able to grow vegetables and all sorts of things through winter because of you.” She truly was sincerely grateful.

He grunted, but it was a pleased sort of grunt. “Looks like we are near ready to go,” he said.

“You don’t have to go to the Wall if you don’t want to. There is plenty of work here at Winterfell.” Sansa felt the words burst out. 

“I’m a killer,” Sandor said, his lips twisting to form a sardonic little smile. “From what I hear, these white walker fuckers need to be killed. For once in my life I’d like to kill something because it’s the right thing to do.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that, but tried to keep her face from betraying signs of discomfort. She really did not approve of Sandor’s swearing.

“But I could stay until the rest of the repairs have been finished if that’s what you want?” 

There was something tentatively hopeful about the look on Sandor’s face that made Sansa’s heart contract.

She didn’t know what made her do it, but before she had a chance to stop herself she had nodded. “That would be very kind of you.”

Sandor’s eyes widened, and Sansa saw him look flushed and uncertain for the first time she could remember.

“Really?” He asked, blinking rapidly at her. “You want me to stay?”

“Just for a few more weeks,” Sansa said, suddenly feeling very awkward. Was she making a mistake?

The others called Sandor over to help lift something, and he gave her another uncertain look before going over to help them. She saw him say something to them, and suddenly both Stannis and Petyr were shooting her surprised, irritated looks.

She walked over to them, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the horses.

“You can’t just change the plan at the last moment,” Petyr said as soon as she was within earshot. “We’ve planned for Clegane to come with us. We’ve planned for the three of us to make the journey.”

Stannis clenched his jaw and nodded in agreement.

Sansa looked around and spotted Ser Rickar Flint, the handsome captain of the household guard. “Ser Rickar,” she said smoothly, “could you spare one of your men to travel to the Wall with King Stannis and Lord Baelish?”

Rickar nodded at once and called for one of his men to come forward.

Neither Stannis nor Petyr seemed much pleased with this solution. Stannis had narrowed his eyes, and a scowl was deepening as he watched every move Sansa and Sandor were making. There was not much to observe, and yet he looked suspicious and almost… angry. _Or jealous?_ Petyr was harder to read, but Sansa almost thought he seemed frustrated. Neither man raised objections, however. A servant was dispatched to make sure the man who would be replacing Sandor would have all his things packed and ready to go as soon as possible.

It did not take very long at all for the changes to be made, and soon the three men who were about to depart had mounted their horses - the finest destriers in Winterfell - and urged the two draft horses to start pulling the sled that was loaded with food and equipment.

“Farewell!” she said, feeling very aware of Sandor’s large frame next to her.

Stannis and Petyr turned their heads, and Sansa stopped breathing for a moment due to the intensity with which the two men were gazing at her. 

She didn’t blush. She lifted her chin for a moment, and then nodded.

It was as if her nod had been a signal. All three men called for their destriers to go forward, and they were off: riding through the open gate at a speed they would not be able to maintain in the snow outside the keep.

If Sansa had been younger she would have gone up to the battlements and watched the three riders for as long as she could, but she was a woman grown, and she had more duties to contend with than ever before. Now that Bran was back, there was so much to be done to get him settled.

“Good riddance,” Sandor muttered.

Sansa turned to look at Sandor’s face. He was frowning, but there was a very pleased light in his eyes.

“I’m not sure it’s that good,” Sansa replied, clasping her hands in front of her and walking towards the main door to the keep. “It’s been useful to be able to keep an eye on them. Especially Petyr.”

“You’re damned relieved,” Sandor said with a snort, “just admit it. You were sick to death of the pair of them.”

Sansa tried to keep from smiling, but her lips curved without her permission. She shook her head and declined to say anything.

There was an awkward moment once they were inside the keep.

“I’ll go get to work, then,” Sandor said after a long silence. He was staring at her. Somehow his scars seemed less prominent than they usually did.

“I have a lot of work to do, too,” Sansa said, meeting his eyes for a short moment before looking away.

There was another awkward silence, but then it was as if they had both been poked with the sharp end of a stick, and they rushed away from each other.


	15. A Feast at Winterfell

_Dear Sister,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t been writing. I know it’s been weeks, but things have been very hectic ever since King Stannis arrived and much has been weighing on my mind. Some of the Vale lords have bent the knee to him, and few of them want to be seen as rejecting his claim outright, now that King Tommen is dead. Even if they did not believe the claims about Cersei's children, Stannis is unquestionably Tommen's heir. Lord Baelish seems displeased by this, but there is little he can do. Ravens are arriving from the south daily, and there is word that some lords opposed to Queen Cersei’s rule are sending ships and men north. Stannis may soon have a force worth calling an army again, even if it is a small one. Lord Baelish seems displeased by this, too._

_But there are those who have other views on Stannis. The Wildlings want nothing to do with him. They remember Mance Rayder all too well. And the northmen think he is a religious fanatic, and too involved with the black arts. Even his Hand shuns him because of what he did to the princess. Stannis wants me to bend the knee to him and declare that the north is no longer an independent kingdom, and he is furious that I have respected the will of my bannermen. I must try to find a way to make all the factions work together. It is all very trying._

_There haven’t been any true battles as of yet, but more and more wildlings arrive at the gates every day, begging to be let through. The stories they tell are bone-chilling. Lord Baelish doesn’t believe a word of what the wildings are saying, and he has mentioned taking the men of the Vale to south with him to King’s Landing to do battle with the Lannisters. Thankfully, the men are refusing to budge unless they get orders from Lord Robert Arryn. Could you write to Lord Arryn as his cousin and tell him how important it is for his forces to stay at the Wall?_

_How’s Bran settling in at Winterfell? I know he probably told you some strange things, and I wish I could be there in person to speak to you about them. It had been… difficult... to accept some of what he said. I have been shrouded in lies since I was a babe it seems. I do not know what to think._

_I will respect your opinion on the matter, but I hope… I wish for us to continue as we always have._

_Your loving brother,_  
_Jon Snow, King in the North_

 

_Dear Brother,_

_I was very glad to receive your raven. I had started to worry._

_Regarding Stannis, I think you are right not to try to force your men to bend the knee. They might revolt if you force them to accept a leader they do not trust._

_I have sent a letter to Robert Arryn as you asked. My cousin has yet to reply, but I implored him to order his forces to stay at the Wall. I told him all our lives are at stake._

_Bran is settling in very well. He is perfectly able to fulfill his duties as Lord of Winterfell though he does not have the use of his legs. And it is a joy to have my brother back with me. I only wish I might have both of them._

_I agree with you about the strange things you mentioned. I think we should wait to discuss them and continue on as if nothing has changed. For me, nothing has._

_Your loving sister,_  
_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell_

***

Sansa marked Bran’s return to Winterfell with a feast.

It was not the most lavish feast the Great Hall had seen, but it was nothing to be ashamed of, either. It was winter after all, and no one expected fresh strawberries or summer wine. There was plenty of good, hearty food, even more ale than there was food, and every instrument in the keep was being played with as much skill as any instrument ever had. Bran and Meera sat together, deep in conversation. 

Sansa danced with everyone who asked it of her, enjoying the way the captain of the guard, Rickar Flint, kept coming back for more. He was flirtatious, but respectful, and Sansa found herself smiling and laughing as he twirled her around the floor. _He really is very handsome,_ she found herself thinking.

“You have a beautiful smile, my lady,” Rickar said as he led her back to her seat after their third dance. “I hope you will continue to smile as much as you have tonight from now on. It will light up these long winter nights.”

“You’re a flirt, Rickar,” Sansa said, tipsy from the ale she had been tasting, and happy to have organised such a successful feast. _And it is such a relief to have Petyr and Stannis out of the castle._ She worried about what was happening at the Wall, but for tonight, she enjoyed having a reprieve from the two of them.

“I can’t help myself, my lady, I hope you know I mean no disrespect.”

“Of course I know that,” Sansa giggled, feeling young and free. She was no longer the Lady of Winterfell. She could flirt if she wanted.

Rickar’s smile faded when he saw something behind Sansa, and suddenly he was making his apologies and walking off to join Beth where she was sitting a little way away. Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion and looked over her shoulder.

Sandor was standing there and glowering.

“Sandor,” Sansa said, feeling relieved that it was only him. “What can I do for you?”

He muttered something incomprehensible.

“Pardon?”

Sandor scowled at his feet and crossed his arms. “Do you want to dance?” he repeated, hurling the words at her almost as if he were angry.

Sansa blinked at him in surprise. She had never seen him dance.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, too curious about what sort of dance partner he might be to even consider denying him.

Sandor looked startled for a moment, but then he clenched his jaw and offered her a hand up from her seat. Sansa felt as if everyone was staring, but she was probably imagining things. Most of the people in the hall were too busy drinking, flirting and dancing to pay her too much mind. Still, there were definitely more than a fair few pairs of eyes on them as they made their way to the dance floor.

It was clear that Sandor was not a skilled dancer, but Sansa was able to make up for that with her own ability for the most part. It was odd to dance without making conversation, but Sandor seemed to be concentrating very hard when he wasn’t busy gazing at her out of the side of his eye. It was similar to the look she had so often seen in Petyr’s eyes, but somehow less… tainted.

She felt herself blushing. _He desires me._

The thought of lying with anyone out of wedlock - doing it by choice - was strange. Her lady mother and Septa Mordane would be horrified if they knew Sansa was even _thinking_ about it. But Sansa could not help thinking about it. Not to act on the idea, perhaps, but … it was a thing even some highborn girls did, she knew, and not as inconceivable to her as she might once have thought it. 

She was no longer a maiden. She was a twice married widow. Her future husband, whoever that might be, would not expect her to be a maiden. If she wished to lie with a man she could. She’d just have to be discreet and drink tansy tea to ensure her moon blood came.

Did she wish to lie with Sandor like he seemingly longed to lie with her? 

Did she wish to lie with _anyone?_ Ever?

Her only experiences with such things were horrifying. It had taken her weeks and weeks to become physically whole after the way Ramsay had abused her. She still suffered humiliating pains sometimes when she moved her bowels.

Sansa knew that men and women generally enjoyed lying together for pleasure, but it was hard for her to imagine it. When she closed her eyes and pictured herself alone in her new chambers with Sandor, she felt fear instead of excitement.

Sansa felt a pang of sorrow as she met Sandor’s intense gaze, and wondered whether she would ever be able to enjoy the thought of lying with a man.

There was some of that sadness reflected in his gaze.

When the song ended, Sandor led her back to her seat. She could feel that his palm was a little clammy, and there was a thin film of sweat on his forehead.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely as he pulled out her chair.

She nodded and took her seat, not quite knowing what to say. After a moment, she took her hand from his grasp.

Sandor’s eyes lingered on her face for a little longer, but then he was turning around and rushing out of the hall, and any words Sansa might have wanted to speak died on her tongue.

***

No one got out of bed at a proper hour the morning after the feast. Not even Sansa. She was one of the first to dress and start going about her day, however, largely due to her anxious thoughts about Sandor. Her thoughts were not exactly pleasant, but she was glad of them when she caught Meera Reed trying to sneak a bundle of linens through the castle corridors.

“Meera?” Sansa said, working hard to keep a straight face when the younger girl blushed.

“Oh, hello,” she said, looking down at her bundle refusing to meet Sansa’s eyes.

“Are those your bed linens?” Sansa tried to keep her voice gentle.

“Yes,” Meera said, still blushing bright red. “Uh, no. They are Bran’s. They need to be washed. I just - I - I didn’t want everyone to see,” Meera stammered.

A quick glance at the linens, and a very visible stain, told the rest of the story. “Was there blood?” she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.

Meera managed to blush still more violently as she nodded.

Sansa was flooded with a surprising array of different emotions. Sympathy for Meera’s obvious embarrassment. Discomfort due to memories of her own distressing experiences with bloody sheets. Happiness for Bran and Meera and their ability to lie together despite Bran’s inability to walk. Sadness because the hope she had been clinging onto - the hope that she would be the one who would produce the Stark heirs - had just been extinguished. Guilt because she had hoped for such a thing despite her best efforts.

“Are you well?” Sansa asked, reaching to touch Meera’s shoulder lightly.

Meera’s eyes snapped up to meet Sansa’s, and she nodded hurriedly. “Oh, yes. Bran was very sweet to me.”

Sansa let out a quiet breath of relief. Then she frowned. “Meera--”

“I’m a Crannockman,” Meera said. “And my father’s heir now. I can’t stay. I … I … if it comes to that, I have Moon Tea. You need not fear that I will be another Talisa, Lady Sansa.”

“Thank you, Meera,” Sansa said. She tried to push aside the thought of Robb’s wife, the woman he lost a war and a kingdom for. _I hope she was worth it, Robb._

“I’ll take the linens,” Sansa said, adopting her most Catelyn-like tone of voice. “You should go and rest.”

Meera nodded, but she was still blushing and looked like she was on the verge of saying something. Sansa waited.

“I didn’t realise it would be so… messy,” Meera said, searching Sansa’s face anxiously.

“There should only be blood the first time,” Sansa said at once, feeling her stomach twist around.

_Should._

“No, I know that,” Meera hurried to say, “I just didn’t know how a man’s seed would… go everywhere.”

Sansa had to suppress a shudder of revulsion as she recalled a vivid memory of lying in bed with the slimy substance of Ramsay’s seed running out of her. She had been unable to get up and clean herself as her legs had been too weak and the pain too sharp…

“That’s normal, too,” Sansa said, trying to force a comforting smile to her lips. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh.” Meera looked less anxious.

Sansa held her hands out for the linens Meera was still clinging onto, and after a moment’s hesitation the girl handed them over.

“Thank you,” Meera said, shooting Sansa a nervous smile.

 _She is so lucky,_ Sansa thought as she watched Meera start to walk back towards the lord’s chamber. _Gods, how I envy her._

An image of Sandor’s eyes rose to the forefront of her mind, and Sansa decided that the next time she saw him she would speak to him about why he had wanted to stay in Winterfell, and more importantly, why he had asked her to dance.

 _Is he in love with me?_ she wondered. _Does he wish to be my lover?_ For all her thoughts at the feast last night, she knew with sad certainty that she could never truly take pleasure in a tryst like Meera and Bran had just shared. She needed stability, the bonds of society and family, and for her, that meant wedlock.

 _Does Sandor wish to ask for my hand? He must know that is impossible._ The gap between their births was so vast as to be insurmountable. She felt sad at the thought. She had very complicated feelings when it came to Sandor, but she did feel safe in his presence, despite everything, and safety was something she craved more than anything. She felt certain that if she were to wed Sandor, she would be almost as safe as if she were to wed _Jon._

Wedding either one of them was out of the question, however.

Jon was - as far as the rest of the world was concerned - her brother, and Sandor was a disgraced knight with no keep and no position in the world.

Sansa frowned and looked down at the bundle in her arms.

Even if nothing could happen between them, Sansa still wanted to talk to Sandor and find out what his feelings were.

 _I will ask him,_ she promised herself, feeling determined. _As soon as I find the right time._


	16. All Men Must Die

_Sweetling;_

_It is cold and dreary here at the Wall, and the company is sorely lacking. The members of the Night’s Watch are almost as savage as the wildings, and I find myself missing you more and more each day. And yet it gives me comfort to know that you are safe at Winterfell. I hope that regaining your home has brought you some small measure of the peace you seek._

_It has been very amusing to watch King Stannis attempt to settle in. His so-called Hand wants nothing to do with him, his conversations with your brother seem to frustrate him terribly, and he appears oddly displeased with the support of the men of the Vale. Many of them seem to prefer Stannis as a leader to myself. Can you imagine? I’m sure I should not take that personally. And the dissent is leading to some conflict between the Vale army and the northerners, which livens up our evenings. The Wall is a very dull place._

_Your brother seems more popular than Stannis, though I hardly think he’s earned it. His band of wildlings follows him about like smitten maidens, and you know what your northern lords and lordlings are like. Your brother does not seem much cheered by his loyal following, and goes about looking as surly as ever. I have tried to talk to him, but mostly he just glares at me. Do you know, I am starting to suspect he doesn’t trust me? How can that possibly be?_

_So far I have seen no evidence of white walkers or wights, and I very much doubt I will. In fact, I think I will be sailing south soon enough._

_Your devoted servant,_  
_Petyr_

***

_Sweetling;_

_I admit I still have my doubts about the walkers, but since my arrival here I have seen things that… disturb me. I rode out with one of the patrols, and the men claim to have seen a wight. I only saw it from a distance, but it certainly looked dead. I find myself unexpectedly troubled. I intend to determine for once and for all whether there is any truth to the stories of the Others. If all that has said is true, then the situation here is more significant than I had thought. I will keep you appraised._

_I am glad to hear that you and your brother Bran are both well. I am grateful for your letter, when I know I have done so little to deserve it. I miss you._

_Your devoted servant,_  
_Petyr_

***

_Sansa;_

_They are real. The wights are real. I have seen one with my own eyes. There is no doubt._

_This changes things._

_It could change everything._

_Petyr._

***

_Sweetling;_

_I am of little use in the fighting, and neither Jon nor Stannis seem interested in consulting me on battle plans. I am therefore spending much of my time in the Castle Black library. The maester is dead and his assistant has gone to Oldtown, so I have taken it upon myself to read as much as I am able about the wights and the Others who command them. This whole question of bringing people back from the dead -- doing it reliably -- is intriguing. I had thought Melisandre’s abilities were exclusive to the priests of the Red God, but this does not seem to be the case._

_I have learned a great deal, but there is much that still eludes me. So many possibilities that I had never considered. I must learn more. The records do not meet my needs._

_Yours, Petyr._

***

Sansa was standing before the heart tree, but she was not looking at the blood-red leaves. She was hardly even aware of the way her feet were steadily becoming numb. There had been no path to follow, and she had been forced to make her own. Cold work for her feet.

All she was thinking of were the letters she had been receiving from Petyr.

Sansa trusted Jon and Bran’s accounts of the wights, but hearing that Petyr might have seen a wight with his own eyes made the threat Jon was fighting at the Wall seem more _real._

_If Petyr has come to believe, it must be true._

Even though Sansa had grown up hearing stories about the Night’s King and the Others she had never been as afraid of them as she felt now. Her fear of them had always been a child’s fear, something to be chased away by Mother or Father, Robb or Jon. It had been far removed from reality.

It didn’t feel like that now.

Her heart sped up.

_If they cross the Wall… if they come for us…_

_And in the fighting, all the men at the Wall are at risk. We could lose any of them. Any one of them, at any moment._

A noise behind Sansa interrupted her thoughts, and she turned around to see Beth approaching.

“I have a letter for you. It’s from Jon,” Beth panted, her cheeks flushed due to the cold or the exertion or both. She handed the roll of paper over.

“King Jon,” Sansa corrected absently, her attention on the seal she was examining. It was unbroken. “Thank you. I will be in my solar if anyone needs me,” she added, already walking.

Beth stayed behind, her eyes fixed on the heart tree.

Sansa wondered what the letter from Jon would say as she made her way to her solar, her journey made easier as she had already worn a path through the snow. His last letter had been cautiously optimistic regarding their plan to get the northern lords to trust Stannis. Perhaps there had finally been a breakthrough?

Her heart was beating a little faster than it normally did as she sat down in her solar and broke the wax seal on the flimsy roll of paper.

She went very pale as she read the words contained within.

_Dear Sister,_

_I have ill news._

_Some nights ago, during an unfortunate fight between Stannis’ supporters and my own men, a group of wights attacked the passage through the Wall, and many of them broke into Castle Black. We were able to kill them, but we lost several men in the process and even more men were injured. Lord Baelish was among those who sustained injuries. He has been unconscious for the most part since the attack. The healers believe he will survive, with luck, but his life hangs in the balance. Lord Seaworth was also injured. We would have lost many more men if King Stannis had not recently thought to fashion arrows tipped with dragonglass. We were able to shoot down the Other who was controlling the wights from the Wall without risking too many lives. But that one quarrel nearly cost us all our lives._

_Stannis has been receiving increasingly numerous letters of support from several important southron lords - not to mention the fact that he has the full support of the army from the Vale - and as news of Tommen’s death spread the tides really turned. My own supporters remain staunch, however, and I do not believe they would accept it if I tried to give up the crown they saw fit to put on my head. You know that I have doubts, and the reason for those doubts. And yet I accepted the crown and allowed myself to be named King in the North._

_I won’t lie to you, Sansa, the situation is bad. We could all die if the men continue to fight about this._

_I do not know what to do._

_Your loving brother,_  
_Jon Snow, the King in the North_

Sansa’s heart was hammering by the time she had read the letter three times, each time hoping that she had read it wrong.

The news of Petyr’s injury caused an icy fist of fear close around her heart.

_With luck. He will survive with luck._

_Petyr._ Of all the lives she had feared for, somehow she had never imagined that any harm would befall him. He was so clever, so cunning, so confident in his schemes. He was the puppet master, never the puppet. It seemed impossible that he should be laid down, even by the living dead.

_But he wasn’t always this man who seems so strong. Aunt Lysa told me, he was once that foolish, brave boy who fought a duel and nearly paid with his life …_

Sansa was not ready to live in a world without Petyr. She didn’t want to need him, but the idea of him being gone…There had been comfort in knowing that he would be there if it all went wrong again -- that if she lost everything, he would be there to pick up the pieces and help her. _Petyr understands parts of me that I cannot show to Bran, or Jon, or even to Sandor …_

But his injury was an opportunity, too. _If Petyr is so badly injured, he will be out of the game for some time. Perhaps forever._

_I can set my finger on the scales of power and tilt the balance, if I wish. But in what direction?_

She could feel the bile rising to her throat, and was forced to close her eyes, drop Jon’s letter to her desk and take several deep, steadying breaths.

_The Others are real. The wights are real._

She stood up and started to pace around, her thoughts racing around and knocking against each other like jousting knights. The Others could not be allowed to cross to the south. In order to defeat them, the army at the Wall needed Stannis’ experience as a commander, and they needed _unity._ The fighting needed to end.

Sansa could make it happen. She could see the outline of the game clearly. She had one piece to play.

Herself.

If Jon was to offer Stannis a betrothal to his sister, it would be taken as support for his claim. The fighting at the Wall might end. The kingdoms could eventually be joined through Sansa’s children, and the north would be committed to upholding Stannis' claim. The Lannister regime in King’s Landing would be weakened, perhaps fatally. She could help stabilize the situation at the Wall, and move Westeros closer to peace.

But would she be giving up any hope of it for herself?

Jon would have to pretend the idea was his own, of course, Stannis would not accept if the suggestion came from a woman, she was sure of that. She quailed at the thought of life with Stannis. She did not feel uncomfortable in his company -- quite the contrary -- but that was not the same as a happy marriage. She did not think Stannis had it in him to be a gentle, caring husband.

And Stannis as King? He could command men in battle, but he seemed to have little gift for winning their hearts in times of peace. She thought of how he had scolded Grenn for feeding carrots to the horses. He was charmless, quick to take offence, slow to forgive slights.

_Being his queen could be the most thankless job in the Seven Kingdoms._

And what if Stannis truly _was_ mad? What if he became like the Mad King Aerys? What if he decided to burn her one day because she hadn’t pleased him well enough?

_What if I give him children, and he treats them as he ended up treating Princess Shireen?_

Sansa walked over to a table where the servants kept a flagon of wine for her use. She poured herself a goblet with shaking hands and drank the contents in a few greedy gulps, trying not to think about the way Cersei had made her drink cup after cup of wine during the Battle of Blackwater. Back then, Sansa had felt so certain that Stannis would not hurt her…

_Gods, I wish I could be as certain now._

But if Jon and Stannis won, Stannis’ position was only likely to get better. Sansa could well be forced into this result - forced to wed him to keep the peace - in any event. Better to do it now, when she and Jon could negotiate the best deal possible. The best _price_.

Maybe she should have left with Sandor when he had offered her the chance in King’s Landing. Left her name and her duties behind. Maybe she and Sandor could have started a new life somewhere far away where no one knew them.

Sansa closed her eyes and scolded herself for being stupid. Sandor had asked her to dance. He had not professed his love. The right time to ask him about his feelings had not arrived, and it was doubtful that it ever would, now. She did not know him much better than she knew Stannis.

She should not allow herself to hope that she was safe with _anyone._

When she had drained her goblet she poured herself another. Her hands had stopped shaking.

With her goblet full to the brim, she sat down at her desk and took a deep breath.

She needed to write Jon a letter.


	17. The Rightful King

Stannis’ journey to the Wall, and his first weeks at Castle Black, were _miserable._

He hadn’t expected the journey to be easy - the weather being what it was - but travelling with Baelish had made everything worse. It wasn’t that the man had spoken much, or _done_ anything, really, but Stannis had not been able to escape a strong sense of unease the whole time they had been on the road. Baelish had not smirked at him, or made any snide comments. He had been unnaturally quiet and reserved. Somehow it disturbed Stannis more than anything else could have. Stannis had found himself almost wishing that Sandor Clegane had been with them. At least the Hound would have kept an eye on Baelish, and the man might have had some insights into what their companion was thinking.

And then there was the wretched Wall. The Wall had been wretched on his previous visit, too, but he’d had Davos by his side. He’d had Selyse.

He’d had Shireen.

Now he had neither. No one supported him except some of the knights from the Vale, and Jon. _The King in the North._ Stannis ground his teeth every time the northern lords bowed and scraped for Jon while shooting Stannis disrespectful, mocking looks.

It was hard not to hold it against Jon, but he needed Jon as an ally. Even with the men of the Vale’s slowly growing support, Stannis did not command the respect Jon seemed to command among the men of the Night’s Watch, the wildlings, and the northmen.

The most frustrating thing of all was that Jon seemed like he might be willing to bend the knee. Or at least, the young man appeared conflicted. His men just wouldn’t allow it because they were a pack of stubborn old mules. (Or very young mules, in Lady Lyanna Mormont’s case.)

Stannis understood why Davos was angry. But he didn’t understand why Davos thought he could simply refuse to speak to Stannis. Davos was his _Hand._ Davos was a lord because of what Stannis had given him. Without Stannis, Davos would still be a common smuggler. Most likely dead.

Then again, without Davos, Stannis would most certainly be dead.

_Damnable onions._

It frustrated Stannis to no end that Davos’ loyalty - something that had always been so unshakable - seemed to have vanished. (Like a fart in the wind, Robert would say.) His loyalty had never wavered before; even when Davos had seemingly been working against Stannis he had really been working for him.

Stannis should have listened to Davos regarding Melisandre. Davos had been right about so many things.

Some days, when remorse overpowered his feelings of frustration, Stannis was on the verge of going to Davos and telling him this. Begging him to resume his duties as Hand. 

A feeling Stannis could not name prevented him from doing this. It was a twisting, writhing sensation in the pit of his stomach that made it difficult to so much as look at Davos.

Pride, too, kept him from seeking Davos out.

Why should Stannis be the one to crawl at Davos’ feet? Stannis was King. Kings did not crawl.

***

Though Stannis did not waste his time trying to convince the southron men at the Wall to follow him due to his own merits, he noticed that their respect for him was certainly increasing as the weeks went by. Stannis had no illusions that they felt any love for him, but they were a folk where duties and properties ran deep, and they respected Stannis’s undeniable claim. In the Vale, even if nowhere else in Westeros, law and custom mattered. Likely more to the point, they also clearly disliked the idea of an independent North. Before the Conquest, the Vale and the North had waged a war that lasted a thousand years, the War Across the Water, and memories were long on both sides. At Winterfell, the Knights of the Vale had fought for the Starks who were blood kin to their Lord, but they had little trust in Jon.

And then the letters had started coming. Lukewarm support from the stormlands was strengthening, lords there wrote. Lords from the riverlands, free from the Freys and the Lannisters, wrote to declare their support for Stannis. They spoke of similar sentiments in the Reach and the westerlands. King Tommen was dead, they said, Cersei was mad. Stannis was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Some of the letters spoke of rumours that an invasion from Essos was imminent. Lords, powerful lords, beseeched Stannis to return to the south and unify the country. 

Suddenly Stannis was no longer treated like a joke.

Suddenly there was tension in the air at every war council.

***

The attack by the white walkers took them all by surprise. For weeks they had been dealing with naught but wildlings: scared, tired creatures that just wanted to cross over to the south. Jon used what authority he had as _King in the North_ to make sure the wretched beings were let through.

The tension between Stannis’ supporters and Jon’s supporters had been growing day by day, and without a common enemy to unite them, a fight inevitably broke out. It happened during a cold night, when the air was unnaturally still, and the sound of shouting men and steel clashing against steel drew Stannis to the scene.

Perhaps he and Jon would have been able to resolve the matter peacefully, but Stannis would never know. 

A patrol had been returning from north of the Wall. The outer gate of the tunnel was supposed to be secured and guarded before the signal was given that it was clear to open the gate at the Castle Black end of the tunnel. But the system was being maintained by Vale men as there were too few brothers of the Night’s Watch. The watchers on the top of the Wall were distracted by the quarrel. Somewhere, a mistake was made.

When the inner gates opened, a horde of the living dead swarmed into Castle Black. 

There had been so many men in the courtyard. Most were lost. And that was not the worst. A white walker on an undead horse was outside the Wall. The walker itself could not cross the Wall. 

It didn’t matter when the dead in the castle began to rise. 

Stannis had been spending much of his time at the Wall trying to think of ways to kill the enemy without having to risk too many lives. Arrows were the obvious answer, but it had not been easy to fashion obsidian-tipped arrows that would function as arrows ought. It had been the work of several days to fill a single quiver.

The arrows had saved them. An archer on top of the Wall killed the Walker, and the men in the castle prevailed against the wights. But not before Davos had sustained a serious injury.

There was no maester. Samwell Tarly was still being trained in the Citadel. Stannis did what he could to help the healers. It was not much, but Stannis had fought his fair share of wars. He knew what the maesters usually did, and he knew much of it was simply making the patient comfortable and letting the body heal itself if it could. Boiled water was important. Fire to cauterise the wounds. Stitches if the wounds would not close on their own.

Davos didn’t wake up for long enough to eat or drink for two days. Stannis sat with him and tried to pour drinking water down his throat as often as he could. He had lost blood and Stannis knew it was important to make up for the loss.

The only bright spot, in Stannis’ view, was that Littlefinger had managed to get himself injured in the fracas. What the man had been thinking - going into the courtyard in the worst of the fighting - was beyond Stannis, but go he did, and near paid for it with his life. A wight had clawed open Baelish’s belly with its bare hands, and he was barely clinging to life. If he did survive, the scar Brandon Stark had given him would have plenty of company. 

When Davos woke up there was a moment where it seemed to Stannis that everything had gone back to the way things had been between them. Davos had looked at him without judgment, without rancour, without accusing him of murder with every line on his face.

“Stannis?” he had said, his voice hoarse and weak.

“You were wounded,” Stannis had said. Stupid, unnecessary words.

The moment had ended too soon. Davos had remembered that he hated Stannis, and asked him to leave.

Stannis had not argued.

Once Davos was back on his feet, however, Stannis noticed that Davos did not seem to be quite as angry as before. He was no longer refusing to meet Stannis’ eyes, and he did not stand up and leave whenever Stannis entered a room.

Perhaps Stannis would have noticed more changes in Davos’ behaviour if there hadn’t been a… distraction.

***

“Absurd,” Stannis spat out, feeling affronted and more irritated than he had felt in weeks.

“I have already written her a letter to ask if she is willing.” Jon was frowning, and there was a stubborn set to his jaw that Stannis thought was very familiar. A dented tankard lay on the ground, looking suspiciously like it had been thrown at the wall. 

“You did not think to ask me first?” Stannis asked, more affronted still. He didn’t know why Jon would be so angry, when this whole thing was his idea. 

“This betrothal would be the solution to all our problems,” Jon said, his frown deepening.. “I hate it, but … We cannot go on like this. Fighting amongst ourselves will ruin us all.”

“She is practically a _child._ ” How many years older than Shireen? Three? Four? Stannis wasn’t certain. 

Stannis did not allow himself to listen to a dark voice that came from the back of his mind, saying things about how she had not looked or acted like a child when he had seen her in Winterfell. They had been distorted by the water she had been bathing in, and he had only looked for less than a heartbeat, but there was an image of perfectly developed teats seared to the back of his eyelids nonetheless.

His shameful thoughts warmed his face, but hopefully Jon would think he was flushed with anger.

“Sansa is a woman grown,” Jon said, still frowning. Still stubborn. Still angry.

“I will not agree to this,” Stannis said, glaring at Jon. “What does a betrothal change? How will it make me a more competent leader? How will it make me more the rightful King? No, I am King, and it is for me to choose my bride.”

_And choose I must. It is the duty of a king to wed so that his line may continue._

It was not something he had given himself time to consider much. He’d had other things weighing on his mind.

Jon sighed. “We cannot afford another fight like the one that happened, and I know the northmen will not tolerate it if I abdicate. If we become kin they will be more likely to follow you. If we become kin… if you and Sansa have an heir… the Seven Kingdoms will be joined once more. The traditional way.”

“The traditional way?”

“The kingdoms will all be united under one ruler when we are both gone and your heir becomes King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Stannis did not like this idea in the _least._ “What if you have a son?” Won’t your heir inherit your title ahead of any children Lady Sansa and I might have?”

 _Children._ Stannis' heart suddenly raced at the thought. He pushed away the sound of distant screams. _Sons, strong sons. I will raise them to be good kings and lords. Men who will know their duty, who will heal this blasted realm._

_Better men than me._

Jon blew out a tired sigh. His eyes were dark. “We should focus on surviving this war before we start thinking about that.”

“You have no right to claim the title of King in the North.”

Jon’s eyes dropped. He opened his mouth, and closed it again. “That may well be,” he said. “But we must deal with the situation as it is. I will not turn my back on the North.”

Stannis scowled. “Say that I were to agree,” he said, feeling increasingly irritated. “When do you propose this wedding take place?” Stannis asked, snorting with derision. “Shall I just disappear in a puff of smoke, wed and bed the wench, and come right back?”

“Mind your words,” Jon said through gritted teeth. “My sister is no _wench._ ”

“Half sister.”

Jon glowered at him. “I will not see my sister tied to an uncertain claim. This betrothal will be provisional only. The wedding will not occur unless we defeat the wights. Then you must truly secure your title as the King of Westeros in the eyes of all men of the realm.”

“Is that all?” Stannis asked. “I must win two wars?”

“I also have some conditions regarding support that the crown will provide to see the north and the riverlands amply provisioned through the winter, and compensation for all destruction caused in the War of the Five Kings.” Jon named a sum that made Stannis' eyes pop. “If you fulfill all these conditions, then you will wed. And of course, this is all dependant on Sansa agreeing to the betrothal.” Jon coughed and looked away.

“Why shouldn’t she agree?” Stannis demanded, scowling at Jon. “She would be Queen.”

“She would be married to _you._ ”

Stannis ground his teeth and seethed, but didn’t respond.

“And my sister has had no good fortune with marriage or betrothal. It is a great thing we are asking of her, when she might have hoped for a time of peace at Winterfell.”

“Fine,” Stannis bit out. He did not appreciate having a betrothal arranged for him without his say or his approval. It rankled that Sansa was being given more of a choice than he was, and it rankled that he was being treated by Jon as he had been treated by Robert. Jon was not his king. Jon was not his older brother. Jon should not be the one arranging a marriage for him.

No one should be arranging a marriage for him. He was King. Was it so unreasonable that he should wish to choose his own bride?

 _Who could you have chosen better than Lady Sansa?_ the dark voice from the back of his mind asked. _She is undeniably beautiful, and of suitably high birth. Her rivals are Margaery Tyrell - who is reported dead - and Yara Greyjoy._ Stannis grimaced.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jon said, though his gratitude did not seem entirely sincere. He was still glowering. “But one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If you mistreat my sister or any children you may give her in any way, whether the law and custom allows for it it or not, I swear that I will take your head myself.”

Jon turned around and left.

“Fucking _hells,_ ” Stannis muttered, sinking into the nearest chair with an angry huff.

He didn’t move much for the next several hours.


	18. Betrothed

_Lady Sansa,_

_I am writing this letter for two reasons. Firstly, to acknowledge you as my betrothed, and secondly to give you a task._

_My attempts to convince those who control Dragonstone, Florents presumably, to send obsidian - you might know it as dragonglass - to the Wall have thus far not been successful. My ravens have gone unanswered. Perhaps you will have better luck. It is essential that we procure more of this material._

_I am asking this of you because your advice to your half brother has proved that you have good political instincts, and now that you are my betrothed it is no longer inappropriate that you should write letters on my behalf._

_Keep me appraised of the situation._

_By my hand,_  
_Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

 

Sansa raised an eyebrow at the letter. She hadn’t really expected romance, but it was customary for there to be _some_ pretense with these political marriages. Most men would have included at least a sentence or two about her beauty, her grace, and how Stannis had been loving her from afar ever since he left her presence.

What did she get instead? An ‘acknowledgement’ of their betrothal. Not for the first time, Sansa was filled with an absurd urge to laugh due to Stannis’ way of phrasing things.

A glance out the window told Sansa it was time for luncheon, so she put the letter from her betrothed away and left her solar. Beth caught up to her as she entered the Great Hall.

“So? What did he say?” Beth asked, excitement and trepidation in her eyes.

Sansa wondered for a moment how it was possible that news of the raven could have traveled so fast, but put the thought aside almost at once. It was winter. Gossip made the season bearable.

“He ‘acknowledged’ me as his betrothed,” Sansa said, managing not to roll her eyes.

Beth gave her a look that seemed disgusted and amused at once. “Really?”

Sansa nodded.

“What a romantic.”

“Mm.”

“Have you told Sandor yet?” Beth asked, giving Sansa a sidelong glance.

Sansa stiffened up. A sharp pain shot through her chest. “I don’t see how it is any of his concern,” she said, trying to appear calm.

Beth shrugged. “Maybe it isn’t his concern, but he’s been acting like a foul-tempered beast while you’ve been ignoring him. Ser Rickar is getting very annoyed with the way he keeps picking fights with his men.”

The pain in her chest intensified, and guilt filled her stomach. She had not known what to say to Sandor after she sent the letter to Jon proposing the betrothal, but she should have done something. Even if she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell, she was still responsible for the wellbeing of the household. If Sandor was causing trouble because of the way she had been brushing him off, she needed to do something about it. It was her duty.

_I owe it to him._

“I’ll talk to him,” she promised.

Beth nodded, and they parted ways when Sansa headed for the raised platform to take her seat next to Bran.

“What did the letter say?” Bran asked as soon as she sat down. Sansa told Bran about Stannis’ letter as she served herself some soup.

“Will you do as he asks?” Bran gave her a searching look.

“Of course,” Sansa said, “he is my king and my betrothed. I must do what I can to please and assist him.”

“I still don’t understand why you have to wed him.” Bran had not been happy at all when Sansa had first broken the news. He had not been angry about the fact that he had not been included in the decision - even though it was his right as Lord Stark - he had been angry at her for putting herself at risk. “He’s so _old._ And unpleasant.”

“He is not very much older than my first husband,” Sansa said, recalling that there were only ten years between the two men. 

“You mean Tyrion?” Bran asked, furrowing his brow. “But I thought - I thought that marriage was never -” Bran blushed. “It was never consummated. It was no marriage in truth."

“True,” Sansa said, not commenting further. Bran was, after all, only thirteen. There were a great many things about her past she had chosen not to burden him with. And she knew people here were unlikely to say much to him. They all adored their young lord.

But sometimes he looked at her with such sad eyes.

“If you would like me to sign the letter to Dragonstone with you, I am willing,” Bran offered.

“Thank you,” Sansa said. 

She reminded herself that just because she was betrothed to possibly the most unromantic man in the Seven Kingdoms, it did not mean that he would be cruel to her. She had to remain hopeful that his true character was not hidden to her like Joffrey and Ramsey’s had been. She had to believe that if Stannis survived the war to wed her they could learn to care for one another. 

Her mother had told her that it had taken her years to come to love Father. 

“Perhaps I will ask that of you if my first letter goes unanswered,” Sansa added with a note of finality to her tone. Bran dropped the subject with a nod, and they discussed other matters as they finished their meal.

Steeling herself, Sansa sought Sandor out after she left the Great Hall. After asking around a great deal, she eventually found him outside, chopping wood. He was wearing several layers of furs and warm clothing, but he was badly dressed compared with her. These last weeks had been bitterly cold, and Sansa never left the keep without covering herself from top to toe in the warmest of skins and furs.

“Hello,” she said, trying to gain his attention.

Sandor kept swinging his axe. There were ice crystals in his beard.

“Noticed I exist, have you?” he growled. “What can I do for you, _my lady?_ ”

Sansa frowned at him, though she doubted he would be able to see the expression very well. She had wrapped her fur-trimmed hood so tightly around her head and face that only her eyes were peeking out.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she said, keeping her tone gentle but firm. “I received a letter from King Jon not long after Bran’s welcome feast. He and I … we have decided on a betrothal. For me.”

Sandor grimaced. “Don’t tell me you’re to wed Petyr fucking Baelish.”

“No,” Sansa said. “Petyr has been injured. I don’t know if he’s even still alive. Jon asked me to agree to wed King Stannis. After the war. If he can retake the south. But for now, a betrothal.”

Sandor stopped chopping. He stared at her.

“Is that what you want?” he asked at length. There was something in his eyes that Sansa could not quite comprehend. It made her feel as if she were holding his life in her hands.

Time stood still for a long moment.

“It’s what I will do,” Sansa said, breaking the silence. Her insides felt empty. “If I become his queen, the kingdoms of the north and the south will eventually be united through our firstborn son, and for now it will unite those at the Wall who support Stannis and those who support Jon. King Stannis and King Jon will be kin, and the men will be able to fight more effectively with them both in charge.”

 _You were the one who told me Stannis would be useful,_ she thought. _You brought him to Winterfell and told me to light a fire for him._

Sandor’s grip on his axe tightened visibly. “Is it what you want?” he repeated through gritted teeth.

 _I don’t know._ She squared her shoulders despite the cold, and met his gaze without flinching. “Yes.”

Sandor clenched his jaw and looked down at the axe in his hand. When he looked back up at her, there was a determined gleam in his eyes.

“I’m going to the Wall,” Sandor said, his tone tone flat and final. “I’m going to fight. Maybe take the Black. I don’t know.”

Sansa felt her heart constrict, but she nodded nonetheless. “I will make certain you are given what supplies you need,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

Their eyes met, and somehow Sansa felt as if she had just closed a door without finding out what was behind it. A melancholy feeling unlike any sadness she had ever felt settled in the pit of her stomach, and Sansa knew with an unshakable sort of certainty that it would remain there for a long time.


	19. The Lord of Riverrun

Sansa’s first letter to the Lord of Dragonstone did not go unanswered.

_Lady Sansa,_

_You are wanted for conspiring to kill King Joffrey Baratheon at his wedding feast. You have admitted to murdering the last of the Boltons: the royally appointed Wardens of the North. You say you are betrothed to the false king and former Lord of Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon._

_Why should House Florent ally itself with you and taint itself with your treason?_

_Melvan Florent, Lord of Dragonstone_

Sansa wrote Melvan back and pointed out that Stannis had a much better claim to the throne than Cersei did, and that due to his ties to House Florent he would be likely to be generous when he returned to King’s Landing to take the Iron Throne.

_I would point out, Lord Florent, that by sending the obsidian north, you lose next to nothing, and gain a powerful ally. Cersei Lannister is no fit ruler. I know you must have suffered losses due to the misuse of wildfire in the city._

Florent pointed out that he would be out a perfectly good ship if he did as Sansa asked, but Sansa was quick to promise that the ship would be sent back.

Florent asked whether he would be compensated for going to all the trouble, and Sansa asked Bran for leave to promise a sum from what gold they did have. There wasn’t much, but Bran agreed to offer Florent what gold dragons House Stark could spare. 

Sansa attempted not to resent the need to ask for permission. 

In the end a deal was struck, and though it had taken time, Sansa was very pleased with herself when she watched a raven fly off towards the Wall, carrying a letter with news of her success to her betrothed.

She had done what Stannis had been unable to accomplish. Surely this would garner her some measure of approval?

A few days later a raven came with a reply.

_Lady Sansa,_

_Let us hope that the shipment will arrive in time to do some good. It took you far too long to negotiate the delivery._

_By my hand,_  
_Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

Sansa burnt the letter.

It was starting to seem very unlikely that their marriage, should it come to pass, would be a loving one.

***

Time went by very slowly in winter.

Sansa was sure it was the snow that made everything take longer. When it snowed, the tiny flakes travelled from the sky at their leisure instead of racing down like drops of rain. When it snowed, the world went still and silent, and the sounds that _were_ heard seemed deeper and slower. When it snowed, the quality of the sunlight changed, and to Sansa it always felt like the light got confused, taking meandering detours before arriving at its destination: distorted and less bright than it should be.

The sky was never a clear blue. Always a dull grey. Or sometimes - when it snowed at night - a strange sort of pink.

It was very early when Sansa was woken by her maid, Laoren, a girl who could be excitable but was generally reliable and good natured. When she looked out the window, the sky was exactly that strange shade of pink.

“Milady, a small group of travellers has arrived,” Laoren said, her voice high and tremulous. “A man, a woman and a child. The man has introduced himself as your uncle, Lord Edmure Tully.”

It was usually hard for Sansa to wake up very early, and most days she liked to be brought a warm cup of tea first thing so that she might drink it in bed and coax her eyes all the way open. The maid’s words rendered the cup of tea unnecessary. Sansa immediately felt more alert and wakeful than she would have felt had it been the middle of the day.

“Hurry,” Sansa said, her voice urgent, “help me dress.”

The minutes seem to drag on and on as the woman helped her lace up one of her better dresses - Sansa and Beth had done the embroidery together in silver thread - but finally, after a very irritating search for her best silk slippers, Sansa was ready to go.

_Could it really be Edmure? Did Brienne really manage to rescue him?_

Sansa was led to a small den where a fire had been lit in the hearth. Bran and Meera were already sitting side by side on a bench covered with furs, but Sansa’s eyes did not linger on them. Her gaze was drawn to the three figures that were huddled by the fire. The man’s face was familiar from the portrait that had graced her mother’s chambers: Sansa knew it well.

“Uncle Edmure!” Sansa exclaimed, rushing forward to greet the last living member of her mother’s family. 

Edmure opened his arms to her, and hugged her a little awkwardly. “Sansa,” he said, disbelief in his tone, “you look just like Cat.”

He still looked much like the portrait, which had been painted in happier days. There were more lines on his face and more grey in his hair, but he was still the same man. When she looked into his eyes, however, she could see that he had been through a terrible ordeal.

“This is my wife, Roslin,” Edmure said after a moment of silence. He placed his arm around the woman’s shoulders. She was pretty, but there was an anxious expression on her face that marred her beauty; a deep furrow between her eyebrows.

 _A Frey,_ Sansa thought, forcing herself to smile and nod at her. It was not Roslin’s fault that her father and Roose Bolton had turned her wedding feast into a bloodbath.

“And this is our son, Brynden.”

The boy looked to be about two years old. His hair was fair and his blue eyes were wide with fear. He clung to his mother’s skirts.

Sansa’s smile became genuine as she got down on her haunches to greet the child. “Hello Brynden. You’re a very brave boy, aren’t you?” She used her kindest, gentlest tone of voice, and made her expression as soft and inviting as she could.

Brynden hid his face, but peeked out from the folds of his mother’s skirt soon enough. His eyes seemed a little less fearful.

“You’re safe here,” she told him, “you’re safe and very welcome.”

Blue eyes met blue for a long serious moment, but then Brynden hid his face again.

Sansa straightened back up and looked at Edmure and Roslin. “You will be welcome to remain here at Winterfell as honoured guests for as long as you wish to stay.” She glanced at Bran and was pleased when he nodded in agreement. 

Breakfast arrived, and soon everyone was busy eating. Sansa was very happy to see that Bran seemed to have asked the kitchen to make a particular effort. The food was generously portioned, the bread was fresh baked and hot, and there was even a bit of bacon.

When the worst pangs of hunger had been satisfied, Sansa asked Edmure to tell them what had befallen him since the Red Wedding. It was not a pretty story, and Sansa’s heart ached with sympathy for Edmure. Three _years_ in a dungeon.

“One day I woke to find all the guards were gone. Nobody brought me food. I was afraid … I was afraid I had been left to starve to death.” He looked to his wife. “Roslin freed me. Her father was dead, and some of her brothers too. She showed me my son. I had never seen him before. We didn’t know what to do. And then someone came and lead us to safety.” He waved his hand helplessly. “She said she was my niece, your sister, Arya.”

Sansa had been about to bite into her lemon cake, but she dropped the food back to her plate at that.

“Arya?” Her chest felt constricted and her heart was hammering so powerfully that she felt near-faint.

“Did you say Arya?” Bran added, his voice breaking with hope.

Sansa exchanged a look with Bran. They were both breathless with anticipation. _What news did Edmure have of Arya?_

Edmure nodded. “I had never seen her, and to begin with, it was difficult to believe. She was dressed as a servant, not a lady. And when some of the guards tried to stop us leaving, she killed them as easily as swatting a bug. I tried to stop her, but …” He shuddered. “She lead us north, and we met Brienne of Tarth and her squire on the road.”

“I wanted us all to go to Winterfell, and Brienne wanted to take us all to Winterfell, but Arya refused,” Edmure said, looking down at his hands. “She wanted to go to King’s Landing. She told us that she had been trained to be a Faceless Man. She said she could take care of herself.” Edmure frowned in disapproval

“You didn’t let her leave?” Bran asked, his tone scandalised.

“She didn’t ask our permission. We woke up one morning, and she was gone.”

“So she went to King’s Landing?” Sansa asked, twisting her hands in her lap, “by herself? Alone?” _A Faceless Man?_ Arya had always been prone to flights of fancy. Sandor had said she had learned to fight, but Sansa could not believe for a moment that her little sister had become an assassin. Not Arya with her messy hair and crooked embroidery. 

But Petyr saw her as Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer, playing the part like she was born to it. And he had told her that he had heard tell of mysterious deaths at Harrenhal around that time... _No, it isn’t possible._

“She won’t be alone.” Edmure sighed. “Once we realised she was gone, Brienne and her squire went after her. Brienne made sure that Roslin and I had food, supplies and horses, and then Roslin and I went north, and Brienne went south.”

There was a long silence at the table.

Sansa thought about everything Edmure had just said and tried to make sense of it. _Why didn’t Arya want to come home?_

“Did Arya give you a message for me? Or Bran?” she asked as Edmure and Roslin rose from their chairs.

“Only that she loves you, and that she will come home as soon as she can.”

Sansa nodded, her heart swelling at the mention of her sister’s love, but at the same time feeling disappointed that there wasn’t more.

“She said a bit more,” Roslin said, giving both Edmure and Sansa a slightly frightened look.

Edmure’s expression went blank for a moment, but then it was as if a candle had been lit behind his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “she wanted me to tell you that she was very impressed with what Brienne said you did to your husband.”

All the air left Sansa’s lungs in an amused rush, and she couldn’t help but smile, though unease filled her belly. Of course Arya would have been pleased with that story. She had always liked the most gory tales Old Nan had spun. 

Sansa pushed aside her unease at the memory of that dark and violent night and looked to Bran. “She’s alive,” was all she was able to manage.

“I know,” Bran said in return, his face breaking out into the widest grin she had seen him wear since they had been reunited.

Alive, but headed for King’s Landing. Where Cersei ruled.

Sansa closed her eyes and hoped with all her heart that her sister would not perish before they had a chance to see each other again. There was so much she wanted to say to Arya.

_I’m sorry about the butcher’s boy. I’m sorry about Nymeria. I’m sorry all the stupid things I ever said to you, and I just want you to come home._

_I just want us to be sisters. Please, Arya, come home safe._


	20. The War at the Wall

When Stannis received a raven from Lady Sansa, and the letter it carried contained the desperately awaited news of her success in securing a shipment of obsidian from Dragonstone, Stannis felt a knot of anxiety loosen in his stomach. Since the attack in the courtyard, they had all been on edge. Stannis still had no idea how precisely the wights had broken in. The men who could have given the answers had all be slaughtered in the attack. 

“What news?” Jon asked.

“A shipment of dragonglass has been launched,” Stannis told him, his eyes still on his letter. There were no words of encouragement or comfort. No flowery declarations of love. No statements about how his betrothed eagerly awaited his return. No prayers for his safety.

He clenched his jaw and put the letter away.

 _I do not want her flattery or her lies,_ he thought. _It was sensible of her not to waste paper and ink on such things._

Davos walked by, clearly wishing to know what the letter said. He looked hopefully at Jon, and then - with a more guarded expression - at Stannis.

Stannis nodded, and Davos visibly sagged with relief.

Though Davos was still not talking to Stannis, he had started to support Stannis’ ideas very vocally during war councils and act more like a Hand should. He agreed that it would not do for the army to sit at the Wall and wait for the enemy to come to them, and he was one of the many who protested vehemently when Lord Baelish tried to convince everyone that they should flee to the south. (If anything, Baelish’s cowardice seemed to inspire the men to stay and fight.) Stannis was itching to attack the horde that was growing day by day, but it was impossible to mount an offence without proper weapons. Charging ahead with castle-forged steel would only doom them all.

“Thank the gods,” Jon said, “I will go tell the men. They need good news.”

Stannis and Davos exchanged a long, silent look, but right when Stannis thought Davos was about to speak, his former friend turned and followed Jon.

Bitterness welled up inside Stannis like poison, and he decided to go to his chambers and write a letter to send back to his _betrothed._

***

The need for good news did not diminish as time went by.

The Others and their wights had taken to attacking the Wall in a way that seemed random at first, and had the men scrambling to defend themselves. However, soon Stannis managed to figure out that there was a pattern to the way the demons were moving. It had taken him several sleepless nights of studying maps and noting down when, where and in what order the white walkers had been attacking, but eventually he had understood that the creatures were attacking based on how the Wall had been manned and defended in centuries past. The Others could not scout past the Wall, so their intelligence was out of date. It had only been luck that had allowed the defenders to meet the attacks, but now they could anticipate them.

They lost fewer lives after that, but their resources were dwindling down to nothing, and morale was low.

In a quiet moment, late in the evening after another exhausting skirmish, Stannis found himself alone with Jon, planning for the next inevitable attack. Everyone else had long since given up and gone to bed.

He wasn’t sure what made him voice the question that occurred to him. Perhaps he was just too tired to censor himself. And he was curious.

“Do you ever wish you had stayed dead?”

Jon looked up from the map he had been studying, his customary frown tugging at his lips.

The question hung heavily in the air between them, and Stannis realised too late how much he had inadvertently revealed about his own feelings by asking it.

“I… I wished it quite often,” Jon said, his words halting. “Before the battle for Winterfell,” he added. “I haven’t wished for it after that.”

Their eyes met for a long moment. Stannis could see some of his own feelings regarding the matter of his resurrection reflected in Jon’s gaze.

“There was a moment,” Jon continued, looking away from Stannis, “a moment in the midst of the battle. I could have died. I could have let go of it all and allowed myself to be crushed. But I realised I wanted to live. I wanted to _fight._ ”

Stannis noticed Jon’s hands curl into fists. He nodded even though Jon was not looking at him.

“It is our duty to fight,” Stannis said, and as the words left his lips, something unsettled and grief-stricken within him felt soothed. “The men look to us to lead them.”

Jon met his eyes again, his gaze thoughtful now. He nodded.

They both pretended to study the map in front of them. Outside the window of the small chamber they were occupying, the wind howled.

“Do _you_ sometimes wish it?” Jon asked after a few minutes.

Stannis stiffened. Shireen’s face flashed in his memory. Davos’ angry glares, too.

“Every day,” he whispered, unable to lie.

Jon said nothing to this - though his frown deepened - and they worked in silence for a time afterwards. When Jon finally gave up and left to find his bed, however, he paused beside Stannis on his way to the door. Their eyes met once more, and the youth placed a hand on Stannis’ shoulder. His touch was firm. Stannis thought for a moment that the young man would impart some wisdom, but he was silent.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jon said, at last.

Then he was gone.

They didn’t speak of their conversation the following day, or any day thereafter. They had their hands full fending off wights.

Stannis knew the army at the Wall would not be able to go on like this for much longer. With each attack the white walkers got closer to breaching their defences, and eventually the men would not be able to beat them back. They needed more obsidian. They needed something _better_ than obsidian.

“What are you smiling about?” Stannis grumbled, finding Jon with an uncharacteristic grin on his face one morning.

“I’ve had a letter from Sansa,” Jon said, his voice light and full of happiness. “Her uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, has arrived in Winterfell with his family. They’re safe, and they brought news of my little sister, Arya.”

“Edmure Tully?” _The Red Wedding Tully?_

“Yes, he escaped from the Twins where he was being kept prisoner. He has his wife and son with him.”

Stannis nodded. “I thought Arya was lost?” he asked. He’d have thought her dead, in fact, after years with no word. 

“She was,” Jon said, still grinning, “apparently she was in Braavos, training to be a Faceless Man.”

_By the gods… these Starks..._

“Is she coming to Winterfell?” Stannis asked, wondering if he would meet her there if he survived the war. _If all goes to plan I’ll be good-brother to an assassin._ He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. _Selyse’s Florent relatives were enough trouble._

“No, Sansa said she’s going to King’s Landing.”

Stannis grunted. “Perhaps she will get rid of Cersei.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Jon said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

When Jon walked off to share his good cheer with the other men, Stannis followed him with his eyes, wondering what it might be like to receive a letter that would inspire such joy.

***

"Headless! Want some sour goat’s milk? Or are you only good enough to kill us, but not to drink with us?"

Stannis ground his teeth and tensed his shoulders. The wildling called Tormund refused to refer to Stannis by any other name than 'Headless', and the death of Mance Rayder had not been forgotten. He knew he wasn’t welcome to drink with them. 

Not that he wanted to, of course. 

"I am not headless," Stannis said, glowering at the larger man.

"You were," Tormund said with a sly grin.

Stannis made to walk away. He'd eat in his chambers rather than tolerate Tormund's presence in the common hall.

"Prickless, too?" Tormund jeered when Stannis turned his back. The wildlings Tormund was sitting with laughed.

Stannis stopped moving and felt an angry flush rise to his cheeks.

"If you had a prick you wouldn't have needed Jon to promise his sister to you," Tormund continued with a laugh. "A man with a nice fat prick could have stolen the girl without help!"

A group of northmen at a table nearby chuckled quietly into their cups, though many of them were clearly trying not to. A fortnight ago they would have laughed loudly and openly. It seemed that Stannis’ betrothal to Sansa had already improved their manners to a degree.

The wildlings had not improved their manners at all. They were laughing more uproariously than before.

Stannis clenched his jaw and started moving again. The wildlings were beneath his notice. And Stannis didn’t know what he could possibly say to Tormund to help matters. Nothing short of pulling his cock out to be measured was likely to shut the wildling up.

… Not that Stannis was likely to impress anyone with such an action at the moment. _Too cold._

He’d had some practise ignoring jeers and jibes in the past weeks... and during his entire life, with Robert... so it was not very difficult to ignore the laughter that followed him out of the hall.

It was harder to ignore the way his heart had started to beat faster at the idea of stealing Sansa like a wildling would. Such an act would be abhorrent, of course. Just… abhorrent.

Suddenly it felt a lot less cold.

With a resolute scowl Stannis pushed the thought away. He had more important things to worry about.


	21. A Decision

_Dear Sister,_

_The news your last letter contained brought me so much happiness. I am overjoyed to know that Arya is alive and well. I am also glad for you and Bran that your uncle Edmure and your cousin Bryden are at Winterfell. You need family with you._

_Your letter could not have arrived at a better time. I desperately needed good news to sustain me. Our campaign at the Wall is going ill. The white walkers and their wights keep gathering in larger and larger numbers north of the Wall. They’ve been attacking more frequently, searching for weaknesses, and it’s all King Stannis and I can do to keep the Wall from being breached. We are running out of arrows tipped with dragonglass, and eagerly await the shipment from Dragonstone. Your efforts there may have saved our lives, and you have the gratitude of us all._

_Stannis has said that the only way to truly defeat the monsters is to attack them before they have a chance to break through our defences, but we cannot attack when our weapons against them are so limited and we have so few men. I am holding onto the hope that Samwell Tarly will find some new information in Oldtown that will help us_

_Lord Baelish will live, but his recovery is slow. After Sandor Clegane arrived - proving that it is possible to make the journey - there has even been talk of sending Baelish and some of the other wounded back to Winterfell to recover. Clegane nearly gutted the man who suggested it on the spot, and I do not entertain the idea. Fortunately, Baelish seems to be occupying himself in reading during his convalescence. I told him of your betrothal, and he thanked me for the word, although he commented that it was ‘early days.’ I suppose that is true enough, although I disliked his tone. Clegane seems to have taken it on himself to watch Baelish when he is not fighting. They spend most of their time glowering at each other. I have a war to fight, so I leave them to it._

_Stay safe, sister, and give my regards to Bran._

_Your loving brother,_  
_Jon Snow, King in the North_

Sansa’s stomach had tied itself into knots by the time she finished reading Jon’s letter. The situation at the Wall sounded dire. 

And Petyr was recovering .. and reading. Was he continuing his researches into the wights? If so, to what purpose? She was fairly sure that it had been that curiosity that had led him into the courtyard during the attack … and it had nearly cost him his life. She had hoped he had given up on the idea, but it appeared not. 

Sansa did not like to think what Petyr might be planning that would require him to understand the white walkers better. She closed her eyes and tried to put the thought aside. Petyr was not Melisandre. He had no gifts of magic. Reading about the white walkers would not grant him the ability to create wights, would it?

_Surely not._

She took comfort from the word that Sandor was watching Petyr. 

She read Jon’s letter again, but the situation Jon described at the Wall had not improved in between readings.

_How much worse would things be if the men were fighting each other, too? Squabbling over who should be their leader: Jon or Stannis?_

As for Stannis… She had not heard anything from her betrothed since the letter she had burnt, nor had she written him a single word. Was he pleased with the way the men looked to him to lead them? Was he feeling as discouraged and in need of good news as Jon?

A sinking, guilty feeling started to eat away at her, and she started to wonder if she should write to him. She was his betrothed, after all. Was it not her duty? She knew she would regret it bitterly if she did not do her utmost to make sure Stannis and Jon led the other men to victory against the white walkers. 

_Sandor was fighting at the Wall,_ she could not help but think. _Risking his life with the other men, likely daily._

But even with her guilt nagging at her, it took her two days to overcome her pride and actually sit down to write Stannis a letter.

Strangely, it had been Edmure and Roslin who lead her to that final step. She had come upon them walking together in the Godswood one day, each holding one of their young son’s hands. The boy was laughing with joy, his cheeks pink from the cold. His parents were quieter, more somber, but there was a unity between them. They had been talking together peacefully.

 _If Edmure and Roslin can find some common ground and affection, with the terrible start their marriage had, surely there is hope for me and Stannis. I have to try._

She had returned to her chambers and sat down at her writing desk. 

She spent a very long time just staring at the blank piece of paper she had selected, her pen poised to write, but her hand unmoving.

It was odd, but for all that Sansa had been married twice and involved in one way or another with three or four men - she was not sure if Petyr counted - she had no idea how to go about writing her betrothed a letter that might infuse him with the strength to perform heroic deeds in battle and save the Seven Kingdoms. Even the thought, when applied to the stoic and practical Stannis, seemed absurd.

 _Stannis is a man who appreciates the truth,_ she thought to herself. _Empty words of praise or flattery will not inspire him to greatness._

Hesitantly, and with a great deal of thought and effort, her letter eventually took shape. The words within it were truthful, but they were the most hopeful, most optimistic version of the truth Sansa could manage. She left most of her fears, doubts, and worries out, and she also left out any mention of Jon. It was not appropriate to speak of another man - another king - in such a letter. Even if she only thought of Jon as a brother.

_King Stannis,_

_I will not waste time trying to convince you that I am breathlessly anticipating your glorious return from war so that you may wed and bed me and make me your queen. I know you would not believe me._

_Neither will I try to convince you that I have come to love you from afar, that my brother’s tales of your great deeds at the Wall have so impressed me that I have become yours entirely, in heart, mind, and spirit._

_Instead I will tell you that I think you’re rather rude and ungrateful. You’re too old for me, and I dread the day I am forced to lie with you. I do admit that I will dread it much less than I dreaded being forced to lie with my first betrothed, Joffrey, or my first husband, Tyrion Lannister, if that is a comfort to you. I will not speak of Ramsay._

_That being said, I believe you are the only person capable of preventing another Long Night from falling. I believe you are the commander the men at the Wall need, and I believe that if you try, you will be able to successfully defeat the enemy._

_As much as I would wish to stay in Winterfell for the rest of my life, safe and at peace, I am not filled with dread at the idea of ruling by your side as your queen, nor do I dread the idea of bearing your children. I believe that you have learnt much from your mistakes, and I believe that you will strive to be a just king and a good father._

_I don’t know if I will ever grow to love you the way my mother grew to love my father, but know that if we wed, I will always respect you as a wife should respect a husband -- as long as you always respect me the way a husband should respect a wife._

_I believe that in time we can find some measure of contentment together._

_Your betrothed,_  
_Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell_


	22. Three Amigos

Stannis did not quite known what to make of the strange, satisfied feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach when the Hound had arrived at the Wall. It was quite the reverse of what he had felt when Sansa had invited Clegane to stay behind when he and Baelish had left Winterfell. It was not that he enjoyed having Clegane near, but for whatever reason he _hated_ the idea of the Hound dogging Sansa’s steps.

Stannis did admit, however, that having Clegane at the Wall was not entirely bad. Tormund was making himself less of a nuisance now that he was busy trying to drink Clegane under the table at every opportunity. The Hound did not exactly seem to like Tormund, but he didn’t seem to dislike the wildling either. They often sat together at meals, eating roast chicken while Tormund talked. The Hound occasionally grunted in reply. Stannis had no particular desire for either man’s company, but he found he was not above a pang of jealousy at the unlikely friendship. He told himself he should just be glad not to be greeted as “Headless” at every meal. 

Clegane had made himself useful in other ways, too. He was an excellent fighter, of course. But to Stannis’ surprise, he had taken an immediate interest in the tunnel through the Wall and the security of the gate. He had spent hours inspecting the mechanisms, and had made several excellent suggestions about improving security. For all the man’s rough manners, he was no fool. Spending most of his life protecting first Cersei Lannister and then Joffrey had given him invaluable experience; Stannis doubted there were many people who had met either of them who had not wanted them dead. 

No, the Hound was an asset, which was why Stannis took a particular interest when he saw the man’s distinctive silhouette crossing the yard in the dead of the night. Stannis himself had been awake reviewing battle plans and had decided to take a walk to clear his head. He hadn’t expected anyone to be about other than the sentries. Even more curious, the Hound was moving silently, keeping to the shadows … and heading in the direction of the library. Stannis decided to follow.

There was light inside the library, pouring out of the open door. The sound of low voices carried from within, and Stannis slowed to a halt. It seemed beneath his dignity to listen at doors, but he recognised the voices. It was the Hound, of course, and Baelish.

Stannis couldn’t make himself leave. He listened. After a moment’s hesitation he moved so that he would be able to catch a glimpse of the two men through the open door and listen unheard.

Baelish was sitting propped up in a chair with cushions all around him. He looked like he needed the support. Even weeks after his injury, the man was still deathly pale. The dark hair of his goatee stood out sharply against his pale skin. He looked nearly a wight himself. If it had been someone Stannis valued, he would have ordered the man back to his bed immediately. Books were piled high on the tables around Baelish. Stannis wondered what possessed the man to be up at this hour of the night thumbing through musty tomes. 

“It must gall you,” Baelish said, not raising his eyes from the book as he turned the pages. “To save a man’s life, at no small amount of trouble, only to have him take the woman you love for his own. What did you think, when you heard?” He glanced up, and a smile crossed his lips. “She told you herself, didn’t she? Yes, she would do that.” 

The Hound’s lips pulled back into a snarl, and there was a glimpse of teeth. “Do you think I was fucking surprised? I knew it could happen the moment I knew he was back from the dead with no wife.”

Baelish looked skeptical. “You thought that. The man was half frozen, unconscious--”

“A man comes back from the dead -- there is something great ahead of him. The Lannisters were fucked when they lost the Old Man and the Imp. I knew Stannis could be king when I took him to Winterfell. Fucker didn’t have a thing, but he doesn’t give up. I knew.” The Hound paused, and his voice was quiet. “She’ll wed a king. She was born for it.”

“You could have left him in the clearing,” Baelish looked genuinely curious. 

“Could have. Didn’t.”

There was a moment of silence, and Stannis had nothing to do except try to keep from grinding his teeth and drawing attention to himself. He wasn’t sure what to make of what he had just heard. _The woman you love._ Stannis’s stomach was twisting, and it felt as if some creature was trapped inside him, trying to claw its way out.

Even though Clegane had not precisely admitted to it, he had not denied it. The very idea of it was enough to set Stannis’ teeth on edge. Clegane was the grandson of a kennelmaster, a keeper of dogs. The family had provided good service to the Lannisters and been rewarded justly for it. But for him to raise his eyes to the highest-born woman in all the land was intolerable. How dared he?

_She is to be mine._

Stannis found himself moving closer to the door, studying Clegane. The man was no youngster, and scarred and uncouth to boot. But still … he was tall and well-muscled. Lady Sansa had not seemed wanton in her ways, but she was unwise in her familiarity with men. Could there be more to it? Surely not. Just the fantasies of a man towards a woman above him in every conceivable way. The minstrels might make songs about such foolishness. In Stannis’s view, they had much to answer for. 

Still …

He wondered what the Hound imagined might happen. Stannis found himself envisioning Clegane abed with Sansa -- the man’s strength, the girl’s delicate body and pale skin. The image flashed in front of his eyes only to be replaced a heartbeat later with visions of _himself_ moving atop the girl, her body pliant beneath his, her teats bare to his eyes -- not distorted by water. Teats bare to more than just his eyes, too ... he could imagine their feel, how her back would arch as the nipples hardened under his thumbs … the feel her her thighs wrapped around his waist ...

He had never felt his blood heat up quite as fast. Not even when Melisandre had…

_Stop this._

Disgust welled up within him, and he felt the need to swallow several times, almost as if he would be sick.

As if Baelish had read Stannis’ mind, the man spoke.

“Do you intend to make yourself valuable to Stannis? Is that it? Do you hope that he’ll keep you near, and thus near Lady Sansa? Are you hoping to lick up the crumbs from his plate, Dog?” 

The words were vicious, but Baelish sounded almost… amused.

The Hound said nothing.

“I hate to be the bearer of ill news, but Stannis isn’t going to be as easy to fool as his brother was. And he certainly won’t be happy to share.”

Still the Hound said nothing. There was an unreadable expression on his scarred face, but his hands betrayed him. They were curled up into fists, his knuckles white.

“Have you thought about what their wedding night is going to be like?” Baelish went on, his eyes glittering with life though the rest of him looked like death warmed over. “Poor Sansa...”

“Stannis is no raper,” Clegane said sharply, speaking up at last.

Baelish rolled his eyes. “Maybe not, but do you honestly think he knows what to do with a woman? Did Selyse ever look particularly satisfied to you?”

Clegane just grunted, but there was a note of agreement.

Stannis’ face warmed with indignation, as much on behalf of his late wife as himself. What business was it of theirs? He and Selyse had their issues, particularly over the years as she struggled to conceive, and their bed had never been a place of great passion, but that had hardly been the fault of either of them.

Maester Cressen had arranged a discreet conversation with Stannis early in his marriage, after speaking to Selyse’s childhood maester. Cressen had told him that some women were born with inclinations towards other women, that Selyse was one of them, but that there was no reason for it to interfere with their duty so long as Stannis didn’t make an issue of it. So he hadn’t. He had even rather appreciated not having to worry about being cuckolded. They had bedded routinely -- quite often at the start, but much more seldomly as the years had piled up. Selyse had been distressed at her repeated miscarriages and Stannis disliked making her ill, which had sapped the pleasure from the act. Beyond keeping to the the schedule Cressen had suggested, there hadn’t seemed much of a point.

“Man went to the marriage bed like he was going to a funeral,” the Hound said. 

Stannis silently huffed. He didn’t think he had looked any different around Selyse than he always did. 

“My point is,” Baelish said, eyes still glittering, “after contending with Stannis’... affections, she won’t want another big brute to rut away on top of her. If she seeks a lover, she’ll want someone with _finesse_. Someone who will actually be able to pleasure her, help her discover what it is to be truly sensual, and teach her about all the carnal sins of the flesh...”

Stannis had to work very hard to keep from looking at the picture Baelish was painting with his words. A flash of Sansa, her head thrown back in the throes of passion, intruded on his mind’s eye regardless.

_Stop._

Clegane barked out a mocking laugh. “And that’s you?” he asked. “Is that why you’re up late reading every night? Trying to figure out how to make your cock big enough to do the job, little fucker?”

Baelish rolled his eyes again at that, appearing unperturbed. “If such information could be found in books, I’d wager every commoner would learn to read.” He paused for a moment and smirked. “Not that it would do them much good. A big cock is all well and good, but without the necessary skills such equipment is wasted.”

Stannis wondered for a moment if that was true, but was quick to put it out of his mind. He did not want to risk his thoughts drifting back towards unwise subjects. Still, Littlefinger’s talk of finesse was making him feel uncomfortably uncertain about things that he had always felt reasonably confident about in the past. Of course, Stannis had not lain with many women, but he’d heard Robert brag about his skills in the bedchamber often enough, and _finesse_ had certainly never been mentioned. What part of the procedure could possibly require finesse, of all things?

“Who told you that?” Clegane rumbled. “Your whores?”

“I don’t need my whores to tell me anything,” Baelish said. His voice was cool. “I tell them how to obtain the results I want. If that is for a woman to scream with pleasure, there are ways to achieve that, with the appropriate self-control.” 

“I believe you’ve made them scream,” Clegane retorted, his tone indicating that he doubted very much that it had been with pleasure.

Stannis felt the corners of his lips twitch. It was never distressing to hear Baelish put down.

“Your face makes women scream,” Baelish muttered, glaring at Clegane.

The Hound crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging. He did not look particularly pleased, and he took a step towards Baelish, looming threateningly.

Baelish’s self preservation instinct must have kicked in at that, judging by the next words out of his mouth. 

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this little chat, I do have a lot of reading to do. Perhaps you could go make yourself useful?”

“Aye, perhaps,” Clegane said, his posture still threatening. “As soon as I find the fucking schematic I came here for.” The man shifted, the scars on his face prominent in the candlelight. “Maybe you’ve seen it? It should show the passages through the Wall and the gates.”

“Why would I have seen it?” Baelish asked nonchalantly. “I’ve had no need for such a thing.”

Something about Littlefinger’s tone struck Stannis as forced.

Clegane eyes searched Baelish’s face in silence.

Tension mounted in the library.

“Perhaps it’s over there?” Baelish said at last, pointing at some nearby shelves. “There are a lot of maps and schematics on the bottom shelf.”

“Hm.” 

Clegane disappeared from Stannis’ line of vision.

“What do you need it for?” Baelish asked, seemingly unable to contain his curiosity,

“Security,” Clegane growled. “It looks like the mechanism at one of the gates has been tampered with. Can’t be sure until I know what it was supposed to look like in the first place.”

Stannis noticed a shadow pass over Littlefinger’s face, but it was gone a heartbeat later.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll sleep easy now that you’re on the case,” Baelish said, his voice mocking.

Clegane came back into view, a rolled up set of plans under his arm. He was looking very carefully at Baelish. Baelish was not meeting his gaze, focusing on one of his musty tomes instead. 

The Hound turned and walked towards the door without speaking a single word.

Stannis hurriedly backed away, hiding himself around a corner.

As Clegane passed by, Stannis heard him mutter, “little fucker,” under his breath.

Stannis stood in the dark for a while, listening to the Hound’s footsteps fade away, his brow furrowed.

_Does Clegane think Baelish tampered with the gates?_

Stannis wouldn’t put anything past Baelish usually, but what did Baelish stand to gain by making the castle less secure? If Baelish had done it, and if it had contributed to the wights being able to storm the castle, all that Baelish had accomplished was to get himself halfway killed.

_No. It doesn’t make any sense. The Hound must be barking up the wrong tree._

Trying to push his thoughts of Clegane and Baelish from his mind, Stannis headed towards the King’s Tower.

Hopefully he would make it to his chambers without any delays. He felt ready to lie down and sleep for days, but he suspected it would be a while before he found the rest he craved. 

There was a sick, heavy feeling in his stomach, and it was not fading away.


	23. Bait

“I don’t like your going out on this expedition.”

Jon shook his head. “We need to know the movements of the enemy. They know to keep to the trees -- what we can see from the Wall is not enough. We are near-blind but for our scouts. We need more information. And there are few of us left from the Night’s Watch who know the land immediately north of the Wall. I need to go.” Jon quirked a smile. “Besides, I hear tell that you were the first man off the boats at the Battle of Blackwater. Surely you are not going to tell me to hang back and send others out to face risks I will not?”

Stannis sighed. What Jon said was true enough, and their scouting and raids had proven valuable. And he could not argue against Jon’s worth in a fight. Aside from his skills, Jon was one of the few who carried Valyrian steel. With his sword and his massive direwolf, he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. But Stannis usually made sure Jon stayed well away from the white walkers unless it was necessary for him to enter the fray. Jon was a valuable fighter, and Stannis would need him for the bigger battles that were yet to come.

_Jon is not just a good fighter,_ a voice at the back of Stannis’ mind pointed out. _He is a charismatic leader._

Men flocked to Jon just as they had always flocked to Robert. It had never been that easy for Stannis. He had but rarely seen the sort of devotion that Robert and Jon seemed to inspire with hardly an effort, and yet he had done just as much - some would argue more - to deserve it. He had led men to victory, survived sieges, and built an entire fleet… And yet … men had never spoken his name the way they spoke Jon’s, Robert’s, or Ned Stark’s. Even Renly had been loved by his bannermen, although he had no victories to his name that justified that love. At least Ned Stark had been a dedicated and competent leader in war.

Stannis clenched his jaw at the thought. 

“Take care,” he said gruffly. “I would not have you risk yourself unnecessarily.”

Jon called for volunteers, and several men stepped forward immediately. Stannis looked over the ones Jon took. They were all young men, strong, good fighters, but with the rashness of young men. The types to risk themselves -- and the types not to come back.

“I volunteer to accompany King Jon, if he will have me.” 

Stannis clenched his jaw more tightly still when he heard Davos’ voice. He met his Hand’s eyes, and saw understanding there. _He knows my mind, just as he always has. And he is stepping forward to meet my concerns - just as he always does. He is a good, cautious man. Exactly whom I need at Jon’s side._

So why did Stannis feel like his worries had doubled?

_Davos has an obsidian blade. He’s with some of our best fighters, on familiar ground. His wound is healed. He’ll be fine._

Jon returned after what felt like a long time, but was probably less than an hour. There was a fresh cut on his face, and his expression was grim.

“We lost two,” he told Stannis without being asked. “There were wights. One white walker, too.”

“Who fell?” Stannis had already seen which saddles were empty, but he could not help but hope the answer was not what his eyes told him.

“Ser Inan Belmore and…” Jon trailed off, a sad look in his eyes.

“Davos?” Stannis asked, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

“He got separated from the rest of the group, I couldn’t find him. Stannis, I tried, I swear, but they were pressing us...”

Stannis pushed past the younger man while he was still stammering apologies. 

“Your Grace!” Jon was chasing after him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to find my Hand.”

“There is a walker out there!”

“Then I will kill it.” Stannis palmed his obsidian blade.

“It isn’t safe!” Jon protested.

“Calm down,” a gruff voice spoke, addressing Jon. “I’ll go with him.”

Stannis looked around to see the Hound towering over Jon, the buckles of his armour straining due to the muscle it was working hard to cover.

Stannis endeavored not to glare at the man. _I owe him my life. If he hadn’t brought me to Winterfell, I would have died again in the snows._ He just didn’t understand why. Why would the man go to such lengths? Did he regret his actions - as Baelish had insinuated - now that Stannis was betrothed to the woman the Hound purported to love? Did he hope that Stannis would die a second death, and leave Sansa free to wed as she wished?

Stannis had a flash of red hair, blue eyes, pale skin, soft curves … in this wasteland of death and suffering, it was an image near powerful enough to bring him to his knees. In truth, could he blame the Hound if the man felt the same? As mad, as impossible as it might be, the temptation must be strong. Stannis did not want to trust his life to the Hound.

“Thank you,” Jon said to Clegane, looking grateful.

“I’m not doing it for you,” Clegane said with a scowl.

Stannis said nothing. What could he say?

A few more men joined them. and by the time they left Castle Black to search the battleground Jon had just returned from, they were ten strong. 

They were careful, and tried to move silently. It would have been impossible in fresh snow creaking under their boots, but the recent skirmish meant that the snow was downtrodden for the most part. It was hard and slippery, but silent. But then, everything was silent here. The land north of the Wall had changed little since Stannis defeated Mance Rayder here, but where it had once been a place of life, only the dead ruled. The forest that the Wildlings had sheltered in was still and dark. 

Everyone who hadn’t made it south of the Wall in the past months was dead. Dead, but not gone.

“Search in groups of three,” Stannis instructed, keeping his voice pitched low.

They spread out, found the area where Jon and his men must have met the wights and a white walker, and searched it quickly and efficiently. There was only one body in the snow, and Stannis made a note of its position, intending to return to it and burn it once the search was complete. Otherwise, they would be fighting Ser Inan’s wight in the days to come.

When Stannis heard a faint call in a voice he recognised, his heart started to hammer in his chest. His lungs started to demand more air too, but he held his breath and listened.

“Over there,” he whispered to the three men currently accompanying him, pointing at a nearby grove of trees.

The snow was less trampled here, but there were footsteps to follow. And blood.

Stannis signalled for his men to keep a weather eye open, and unsheathed his obsidian dagger. He wanted to run to the end of the trail they were following. He wanted to shout Davos’ name and hear his call answered. But he knew such behaviour was folly.

His heart was beating so hard, and the silence around him was so thick, that Stannis felt as if he were carrying a war drum in his chest.

A dark shape in the snow had him walking a bit faster than was wise, throwing himself to his knees when he got close enough to recognise Davos’ armour.

“Your Grace,” Davos said in a hoarse voice, “behind you.”

Obsidian dagger still in hand, Stannis whirled around to see a white walker with an icy crown slash through the three men who had been with him as if they were freshly churned butter.

He tightened his grip on the rough weapon he carried, cold sweat coating his skin and making his palms slick inside his gloves despite the freezing temperature.

The demon advanced on him, raising his sword to strike. The sword had a much longer reach than Stannis’ dagger, but maybe he would be able to take the demon down with him and keep it from killing Davos…

It seemed all over. But before the white walker could reach Stannis, a hulking shape appeared through the darkness, moving with a speed Stannis would not have imagined possible for something so large. It was through the walker’s defences in a heartbeat, and buried an obsidian dagger in the creature’s chest. The thing shattered into a thousand pieces.

_The Hound._

Stannis gulped, then turned to lift his injured Hand.

“Let me,” the gruff voice spoke behind him. The Hound picked Davos up as if he were nothing more than a sack of flour. He immediately started making his way back to the castle.

Stannis stood up and hesitated, unsure of whether to follow the Hound. “Where are the rest of the men? We can’t leave them.” 

“I told them to run when I saw what was coming. The fuckers are at the gate, or they’re dead,” snapped the Hound, over his shoulder. “Are you coming, or do I have to drag you again?”

Stannis swallowed his pride, and followed the Hound. When he got clear of the trees he saw that several of the men were ahead of them. He walked as fast as he safely could in the treacherous conditions, aware that trampled snow could be as slippery as ice. His heart was still beating impossibly hard, his blood rushing in his ears.

_What is following us?_ He dared not look back, but he could hear the tread of feet. Running feet. 

He forced himself to walk, although as quickly as he could. A fall now would mean death. 

He tried to breathe slowly, steadily, but it was difficult. Somewhere in the distance he could hear snow creaking ominously. Nearer to him the feet were still running. Getting closer.

He couldn’t control his breathing anymore. Great puffs of steam escaped his mouth as he panted, hastening his steps until he was moving at a near reckless pace.

The instinct to run was screaming at him. Whatever it was that was giving chase was on his heels.

With the gate in sight, Stannis succumbed to the need to sprint.

He didn’t fall.

They all made it through the gate just in time to close it. Stannis knew that if they had been a heartbeat or two later, they would have been lost.

Jon met Stannis’ eyes. The younger man had clearly been waiting for the rescue party to return, and his expression seemed both fearful and relieved.

Without speaking, Stannis rushed to higher ground. Jon followed. Stannis was anxious to see what it was that he had escaped. _Wights? White walkers? Some new foe?_ He wanted to know how many there were, and he was anxious to see whether they would attack.

They did not go all the way to the top of the Wall. There were murder holes one could look through by the gate, and they had gone to the nearest one. The small opening did not afford them a sweeping view, but what they did see almost made Stannis’ frantic heart stop short.

There were wights and white walkers as far as the eye could see. Hundreds. Possibly thousands. At the front there was a white walker mounted on a skeletal horse. He looked different from the one that had nearly killed Stannis, but he was wearing a similar crown. A new leader? Or had the other been a decoy?

“They wanted to lure you out,” Jon said, his voice thick with worry.

Stannis frowned. It was hard to tell whether the white walkers had any concept of who among the humans they fought was important, and who was less so. But it certainly seemed as if Davos had been used as bait.

_But for the Hound, they would have had me._

“Send a raven to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea,” Stannis said, “I want to know the instant the ship from Dragonstone arrives. We need more obsidian.”


	24. Word from the South

Stannis did not have very much time to spare to sit at Davos’ bedside as he recovered from his recent injuries. He tried to visit when he could, however, though it was awkward when Davos was awake.

“Back again?” Davos asked.

“I wanted to know if you remembered anything else,” Stannis said, not meeting Davos’ eyes. “About the attack.”

“I’ve told you all I can remember, Your Grace,” Davos said, his tone mild.

Stannis kept quiet. _Should I leave?_ He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t feel comfortable sitting down.

“Any news?” Davos asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

Stannis swallowed and walked closer to Davos’ sickbed. “Their numbers are growing,” he reported. _Always growing._ Stannis had never seen such a horde in his life. 

There were no more sallies north of the Wall, and they didn’t need to scout, not any more. The armies of the dead were plain to see, although they were not attacking with their full force yet. Stannis suspected that the Others wanted the defenders of the Wall to know the forces arrayed against them. They were giving fear and despair time to do their work. Every day saw desertions now, and even those who stayed were losing hope.

_Will we all be like those shambling creatures outside the Wall someday soon?_

They fell silent for a long time again. 

“She would have been proud of you,” Davos said, breaking the silence again.

Stannis’ stomach clenched up, and he felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart. He did not need to ask who Davos meant.

_Shireen._

“You acted like a hero from one of her books,” Davos continued, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

“I acted like a fool. Men died. Good men.”

“They knew the risks. We all know the risks.”

Stannis grunted and looked down at his feet. Knowing the risks did not make the deaths any more just.

“Tell me you regret it,” Davos said, pain in his voice.

Stannis looked up to see Davos giving him a hard stare. He swallowed, and closed his eyes for a moment. Davos had not given him a chance to speak of the matter until now.

“I regret it,” he whispered. “She was innocent. She was good. She … she trusted me. I should not have sent you away. You would have stopped me. You would have been right to stop me.”

“Why did you do it if you knew it was wrong?” Davos asked, his voice now filled with emotion.

Stannis felt his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. The dull pain kept him from falling to his knees.

“I can’t explain the madness that came over me,” he said slowly, meeting Davos’ eyes even though his vision was blurring. “I was… I was convinced Melisandre was right… I believed I was chosen. I believed it was necessary. And I was… I was afraid. You know what I endured. The Siege. The _hunger_.”

Stannis did not think he had truly seen things clearly until he was already charging forth, meeting the vastly superior Bolton forces in the field. It had been too late to change his course.

Meeting Brienne in those woods has been a relief. He had wanted nothing more than to die for what he had done. It had been just, what she did, if not the reasons for which she did it. As she brought down her blade, he had known that.

Slowly, haltingly, Stannis tried to explain this to Davos.

Davos listened, and though his own vision was blurry, Stannis saw a tear roll down Davos’ cheek and disappear into his beard. 

No words of forgiveness were spoken between them. Stannis knew he had no right to ask. But he knew there was an understanding between them now. A truce.

A heavy load Stannis had not realised he had been carrying was suddenly lifted from his shoulders, and he walked from Davos’ room with his back straighter than it had been in _months._

***

The raven from Sansa surprised him. He had not heard a word from her since she had told him of her success in securing the shipment of obsidian from Dragonstone.

 _What does she want?_ he thought to himself as he broke the seal.

He had gone to his chambers to read the letter, not wishing for anyone to spy on him as he discovered what it might contain.

Stannis was glad of his foresight by the time he had finished reading.

_I dread the day I am forced to lie with you._

He clenched his jaw shut and felt his face heat up with anger and a horrible sort of helplessness.

Was he really so unattractive that she would feel the need to tell him that the only prospects she considered worse than him were Tyrion the Imp and a - now dead - incest begotten bastard?

It was hard to focus on anything else the letter said. Stannis’ eyes kept being drawn to the same words. He read them over and over until he felt as if he’d see them even if he closed his eyes.

In the end Stannis put the letter away, hiding it among his other papers.

Perhaps a walk in the freezing cold would help him clear his head? It ought to distract him, at least. Now that it was the dead of winter, it got so cold that it was hard to breathe the air. Every breath felt as if one’s lungs were freezing in one’s chest.

It was hard to think about anything but the cold when walking outside.

“Your Grace?” a familiar voice spoke, drifting over from the other side of the empty courtyard.

Stannis turned to see Davos walking towards him. His Hand had recovered quickly from his injuries and Stannis had given him duties as light as could be found in these desperate days. Things between them were not as easy as they had once been, but they had learned to work together again, and even rediscovered some pleasure in each other’s company.

“What are you doing outside? It’s cold enough to freeze your bollocks - I mean… It’s quite cold, Your Grace.”

Stannis muttered something about clearing his head.

Davos looked at him for a moment, an odd expression on his face. Stannis felt uncomfortably like he was being judged.

“Can’t you clear your head inside the castle? Come on, I’m about to deliver a letter to Jon. Looks important.” Davos hesitated, then continued. “Walk with me. You’ll probably need to read it, too.”

The words made Stannis’ throat feel oddly tight for a moment. On the surface it seemed that Davos was only asking him along because of the letter, but the mild tone… the lack of accusation in his eyes…

Stannis swallowed and fell into step with his Hand.

When they were back inside the castle, Davos lowered his furs and asked Stannis what was on his mind.

“It’s nothing,” Stannis said, scowling at the stone floor, though a part of him felt impossibly light. It felt good to talk with Davos like this. It felt _right._

“If it drove you outside in this cold I believe it’s something, Your Grace.”

Stannis felt his face redden, and it was not just because his body was warming up now that he was back inside. Davos always seemed to see right through him.

“I’ve had a letter from Lady Sansa,” he said, hoping that Davos wouldn’t pry once he knew that Stannis was dwelling on a private matter. Nothing to do with the war.

“Ah,” Davos said, his lips twitching. “I should offer my congratulations on your betrothal. She’s a very beautiful woman.”

Stannis nodded curtly. He and Davos hadn’t been on speaking terms when the announcement had first been made, and speaking of it now seemed strange.

A faint memory of sharing the news of his first betrothal with Davos resurfaced in his mind. He had been so much younger then, and Davos had so recently saved him from starvation -- so recently been knighted…

 _”You’re to marry a woman you’ve never even seen?”_ Davos had asked, a bemused expression on his face. At the time, Davos had been unaccustomed to the ways of the nobility. 

Stannis had explained that it was Robert’s will. He had explained that such a political match was not unusual.

 _”What if you don’t like her?”_ Davos had then asked. Stannis could still recall how he had shaken his head -- as if it was all absurd.

_”It is not my duty to like her. Only to wed her, and get her with child so that she can give me a son.”_

Davos had already had a son at that point. Matthos. And a wife that he loved, and who loved him. It seemed so … uncomplicated.

Stannis had always attempted to disguise his envy - it was unseemly for a lord to envy a man of Davos’ position - and with time it had become easier. He did not resent Davos’ luck. Not truly. He only wished he could have been as fortunate.

They had been walking in silence for a while, but eventually Davos’ silence and curious glances prompted Stannis to speak.

“She does not wish to wed me,” he said, the bitterness he had felt when he had first read the letter swelling inside him.

“She wrote that?” Davos sounded surprised.

“She wrote that she dreads -” Stannis hesitated, debating how best to phrase what she had said. “She dreads our wedding night,” he finished after some deliberation.

“I should expect so,” Davos said, nodding.

Stannis furrowed his brow and frowned, feeling rather insulted at Davos’s matter-of-fact tone.

“From what I’ve gathered she spent her previous marriage being raped and tortured,” Davos said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Stannis bristled. “I would never -” 

“I’m not saying you would,” Davos interrupted, lowering his voice as they passed two knights of the Vale. “But nonetheless, it occurred. And her previous marriage was orchestrated to take advantage of her brother’s murder and tie her forever to her father’s killers. And before that, she was promised a boy who had her publicly beaten whenever he pleased. It’s likely that Lady Sansa would dread being wed to anyone.”

“She did say that the only men she could think of who could be worse to wed than me are Tyrion Lannister and Joffrey,” Stannis admitted. Thankfully she had refused to speak of Ramsay, and Stannis hoped he would never be compared to that monster.

Davos winced. “At least she thinks you’re better, not worse?”

They turned a corner and Stannis saw that they were only a few minutes away from Jon’s chambers.

“Do you think I should write back?” Stannis asked, feeling decidedly out of his element. 

He and Selyse had not had a long betrothal. Even after they were wed, he could not remember exchanging any letters with her that had not concerned Dragonstone or Shireen in some way. Selyse would never have written a letter like Sansa’s. She had been a practical woman, aside from her religious fervour. And that had come late in the day. For most of their marriage, she had seemed phlegmatic enough.

 _But she had emotions that ran deep,_ Stannis reminded himself with a grimace. That much had become abundantly clear. In the end.

Stannis had never really known how to go about showing it, but he had cared for Selyse, and seeing her hanging in that tree had been… difficult. She had been a dutiful wife and had never complained about her situation in life, despite the inclinations she had been born with. She had given him Shireen. 

_I put a cloak around her shoulders and I swore to protect her._

Things had not always been so cold between them. Once Selyse had been different. Before the miscarriages; before the bleakness of Dragonstone crept in and made them both harsher and more indifferent to each other. When they had wed she had been young and nervous and eager to please. She had never pushed him away, and she had been there in the nights when he had needed companionship the most -- when the fresh memories of the siege had threatened to drive him mad. He had been little more than a boy, and she just a girl. She had been kind, once. He had tried to be kind to her, too. 

He didn’t know where they had failed. 

“That depends. What did the rest of the letter say?”

Stannis grudgingly related the parts of the letter that had not been quite so harsh.

“Lady Sansa said all that?” Davos’ eyebrows had risen quite high.

Stannis nodded, his face still feeling warmer than it should, his stomach churning uncomfortably due to his memories of Selyse.

“Well, then,” Davos said, blowing out a loud breath, “perhaps you ought to write to address those things rather than the bits that were less flattering.”

Stannis scowled. He did not believe in ignoring those things in life that were unpleasant.

They had reached Jon’s chambers, and Davos knocked.

Stannis cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “How important did that letter look?” he asked. He wondered why it would have been given to Davos to deliver rather than an ordinary messenger.

Davos frowned. “I’m not completely sure, but I think… urgent.”

Jon opened the door while Davos was in the middle of searching his person for the important letter.

“Hello,” Jon said, looking at them both in turn, a slightly bemused expression on his face.

“Davos has an important letter for you,” Stannis explained a little awkwardly.

“Oh.” Jon looked politely at Davos while he continued to search his pockets.

Finally, Davos produced the letter and held it out for Jon to take.

When Stannis caught a glimpse of the seal on the letter he stared.

Red wax. Three dragon heads. _A Targaryen seal._ A seal that had not been seen in the seven kingdoms in over twenty years. 

How was this possible? Tale had it that Viserys, called the Beggar King, was dead on the Dothraki planes. Stannis had not thought to question the rumours. He had been begrudgingly impressed at the boy’s survival all these years. Had the last of the Targaryens lived on after all? Wait, no, the boy had a sister. Stannis had forgotten her. 

“King Jon,” Davos broke in. “Are you going to open it?”

Stannis nodded impatiently. The young man was far too prone to let emotions overwhelm him and affect his duties. But when he looked to Jon, the reprimand died on his lips. His face was bloodless, and he stared at the letter as if he held a serpent, not a piece of parchment. 

“Go on,” Stannis said. 

Jon took a breath, and opened the letter.


	25. The Hand of the Queen

_Sister,_

_You have given so much, done so much, I know I have no right to ask for more. And yet I find myself compelled to ask again. Momentous tidings have come to us here at the Wall. I have received word addressed to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. A similar letter may have already been received at Winterfell._

_Daenerys Targaryen has landed in the south with a great army from Essos. Dorne and the Reach have sworn to her, and she has taken Casterly Rock. She was crowned Queen of Westeros in the Starry Sept of Oldtown. Tyrion Lannister is her Hand. She demands that all the Lords of Westeros swear fealty to her_

_She claims to have dragons._

_The political implications are enormous, but politics matter little in a realm of the dead._

_Sansa, I must be honest with you. I am not confident that we can hold against the army that is besieging us. If even a shred of what Daenerys claims is true, then we need her help here, desperately. She might have little reason to aid the Night’s Watch, but she is the sister of Rhaegar Targaryen, and you and I both know the blood that runs in her veins. In this time of peril, our only hope may be an appeal to that blood._

_I ask you to travel south under my banners and parlay with Lord Tyrion in my name. Reports are that he is with the forces Daenerys has in the Riverlands. Ask him to intercede with the Dragon Queen. I have enclosed a letter for her if you are able to gain an audience with her. Beyond that, promise what you must on my behalf, if only she will help us._

_I know the gravity of what I am asking, but there is no one else who I can trust to do this. All our lives may depend on your success._

_Jon._

***

It had been a miserable few weeks battling the storms on the road from Winterfell to Greywater Watch. Sansa had taken as small an escort as she could persuade Rickar and Bran to agree to. Time and stealth were of the essence here, and she doubted that a few more swords would make a difference if they were waylaid by Lannister troops. She shivered at the thought.

And would her reception by this Daenerys Targaryen be any better? She did not know. _Surely Tyrion will not allow me to come to harm,_ she thought. _Tyrion is a good man, for all that he is a Lannister. He was kind to me. As kind as he could be._ She was not entirely sure what reception she could expect from Tyrion, though, when she came to him as one man’s widow, and another’s betrothed. 

_I have a promise of safe-conduct,_ she reminded herself. _Signed by Daenerys herself._ Ravens had gone back and forth, and the document had been waiting for her at Greywater Watch. She only hoped it was worth the paper it was written on. _My grandfather thought himself protected by conventions when he rode to Aerys’ court. I thought Petyr was protecting me when he sold me to the Boltons._

 _What did Lyanna think before Rhaegar abducted and raped her?_ Sansa remembered the day her moon blood had come as she travelled with Brienne and Podrick, and how she had wept with relief to know she was not with child. _And Lyanna was younger than I when Jon was born._

_People say Arya resembles her._ The thought of Arya being used as Ramsey had used Sansa, of Arya imprisoned … she felt her gorge rising. 

_And I must treat with that man’s sister. Jon wants me to tell her the truth about his parentage and beg for her aid. What if she sees him as a rival for her throne? What will she do to him?_ She wished she knew. _If I tell this Dragon Queen the truth, will she help Jon, or kill him?_

An escort of the fighters called “unsullied” met Sansa at Greywater Watch. The roads became easier as she travelled south. Winter was still only beginning in the Riverlands and the snows lay lightly on the ground. They made good time. As they passed through the ruined villages Sansa distributed what coins her thin purse could spare. The smallfolk seemed more cheered by the sight of her red hair than her paltry gifts, though, and whenever she could she spoke encouragement to the people. When she could not stop, she took to wearing her hood down so they could see her Tully looks and that alone seemed to give the people hope. 

It took over an hour just to ride through the Targaryen camp. Sansa tried not to be intimidated by the scale and organization of the Dragon Queen’s armies, but in truth she felt very young and very frightened as she was shown into Tyrion’s tent -- a lavish structure at the center of the encampment. She only hoped none of her nerves showed on her face. 

It was such an odd feeling to see Tyrion rise to greet her. Odd, but strangely, not unpleasant. 

“Well,” Tyrion said, as he looked at her, and a smile touched his lips. “This is awkward.”

_Those are the words with which he told me we were to be wed._

She smiled in return, and it wasn’t as false as what she had practiced. “Yes, it is.”

“You look lovely, of course, as always.” He gave her a sharp look. “You look … older.” 

“I am older.” So much older. 

“Would you like a cup of wine?”

She would.

There were female attendants for the proprieties -- a dark skinned woman and her fair haired companion, both clad in the style of Essos foreigners -- but Tyrion served her with his own hands. After he sat down opposite her at the small table, there was a moment of silence between them. Sansa played with her cup. 

“I saw Podrick several months ago,” she said. “He is squire to Brienne of Tarth now -- do you remember her from Joffrey’s wedding? Podrick is well, and growing into a fine man.”

“I am glad.” Tyrion took a breath. “Sansa, what happened? After Joffrey’s death, you vanished into thin air. Cersei scoured King’s Landing for you.”

“Petyr Baelish. He had it all planned. An agent of his gave me the necklace with the poison. When it was done, he took me to a boat, Petyr had a ship waiting … I swear, I didn’t know any of it.”

Tyrion’s eyes darked. “Littlefinger.” It sounded like a curse. “Did he act alone?” His eyes were intense. 

“I believe he may have had allies, but he didn’t name them to me.”

Tyrion sighed in frustration.

Sansa thought of that day on the boat. Littlefinger’s face illuminated by the light of the small window, his measured voice, the deck swaying under her feet. _My new friends are predictable. Very reasonable people. As for what happened to Joffrey, well, that was something my new friends wanted very badly._ And she remembered the necklace, and Olenna Tyrell’s hands straightening it.

She took a sip of her wine, and said nothing. Olenna was a Targaryen ally. There was nothing to be gained from telling Tyrion what she suspected. Not yet. Littlefinger’s involvement would have been impossible to conceal once Tyrion learned where she had been, but the Tyrells … not yet. 

It was difficult to think of Joffrey’s death. _If I had not run when Dontos told me … if we had been caught … I could have been charged with treason along with Tyrion. I could have been executed._

 _Ramsey was not the first time Littlefinger risked my life._ And she thought of Lysa Arryn’s clutching hands and the open Moon Door.

“Petyr was injured at the Wall,” Sansa said. “Badly injured.”

“I suppose it is too much to hope for that he might die.” Tyrion drained his cup and put it down. “So, I assume you are here to negotiate something on behalf of your brother Jon. King in the North. He’s certainly risen in the world.” He leaned in, and his face went serious. “You have seen the armies we have here, and that is only a small fraction of our forces. Sansa, the North cannot stand against Daenerys.”

Sansa put her cup down. She needed to remain clear headed. “You want Jon to bend the knee.”

“Daenerys is generous to her friends, and a bad enemy. The North has little to gain from continued defiance.”

“Little to gain?” Sansa pushed her chair back, and stood. She paced across the room. Tyrion remained seated, but his eyes followed her.

“As I see it,” she said to Tyrion, “we have much to lose from an alliance. Your Queen’s armies are impressive, and she has the support of some great houses. But what does she know of Westeros, Tyrion? Four people have sat the Iron Throne in seven years, and we have had another five crowned elsewhere. She may think to take King’s Landing, but does she understand what it takes to survive in that pit of vipers?” Sansa shook her head. “Have you explained to her that she needs to look outside the window every hour to see if the Tyrell army is still there?”

Tyrion winced at that. 

“Daenerys is prepared to listen to her advisors and to compromise where needed,” he said. “Strong allies would make her rule more secure.” He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “The Starks are strong, these days.” 

Sansa stopped, and turned. “You intend to propose a marriage between Daenerys and Jon,” she said. 

Tyrion moved his cup. “It is something I would be interested in opening discussions about. Nothing more.” His words were cautious, clearly carefully chosen. “The marriage of a Queen is a weighty matter -- it could be the foundation of a great alliance.”

“I suppose there were few other candidates.” Sansa cocked an eyebrow. “What is your plan if the answer is no? Do you look to Robert Arryn as a husband for your Queen?” She kept her face innocent. “What is her bosom like?”

Their eyes met. Tyrion’s face was neutral. Then his mouth wavered. He tried to force it into a straight line, but soon he bent his head, and his shoulders shook with laughter. Sansa joined in with a peal of her own. The dark-skinned woman pursed her lips and the blond glared. 

“You are going to get me into trouble, Sansa,” Tyrion gasped. 

But then their laughter died away, and there was silence in the room again. 

“It isn’t that simple with this alliance you propose,” Sansa said. “Cersei Lannister is not your Queen’s only rival for the throne. Stannis Baratheon is at the Wall, helping to defend it. He came to Jon’s aid where no one else would.” She took a breath. “I am betrothed to Stannis, and will be his Queen if he defeats the enemy at the Wall and is successful in his claim to the throne of Westeros.”

Tyrion’s jaw dropped. “Isn’t there a rather large problem with that arrangement, in that you are still married to me? I had also heard that you were wed to Roose Bolton’s bastard.”

“Wed and widowed,” she said, and snapped her mouth shut. 

For a moment, her eyes locked with the fair haired woman. _They are listening, doubtless reporting back to the Queen. Good._

“And this is possible how?” Tyrion demanded. “Did you somehow acquire an annulment from the Faith?”

“By the laws of the North, no man and woman are considered truly wed unless they have lain together. Our marriage was never consummated. After a year had passed, by our customs I was free to seek out other unions.”

“Just like that? No annulment … you just off and marry whom you like?”

“Of course not. Don’t be absurd. If the conditions are met, either party to the marriage may seek the declaration of their lord to the effect that they are free to wed. If the matter is in dispute, and the marriage involves one of noble blood, it is resolved by,” she paused, and let a smile cross her lips, “the Starks of Winterfell. In the eyes of the North, you have no claim on me. Comity is well established between the North and the Faith on these matters. If Stannis takes the throne, I am free to wed him.”

Tyrion looked as if he had bitten something sour. 

_He is not a bad man, but he has his pride._ Sansa bore Tyrion no ill-will, but she had to admit a certain pleasure at having some power in an interaction with a Lannister.

“That is a rather large if,” he said.

“It is. But three years ago, Joffrey was King, the Tyrells were staunch Lannister allies, and the northern cause was considered lost. Five years ago, Renly Baratheon was likely to take the throne with his staunch Tyrell allies and my brother Robb was King of the lands we are sitting on. Six years ago, Robert Baratheon was King of all Westeros, my father his Hand, and I was betrothed to Prince Joffrey. Things change.”

“And so if Stannis takes the throne, you will be Queen. I thought you knew better than that, Sansa. It isn’t much of a life.”

“It is the best path to peace,” Sansa said quietly. “Or so it seemed at the time the arrangement was made. I will wed Stannis, if he wins his wars and takes the crown.”

“And if he does not?”

“Then perhaps I might be free.” _That sounded sad and weak. I cannot afford that. Not even in front of Tyrion, who has seen me weak before._ She forced herself to take a lighter tone. “But most likely there will be someone else waiting with an offer that benefits our House. There always seems to be.” 

Tyrion shifted. “Sansa … why are you here? What is it that the north is looking for, in approaching us, if to offer neither fealty nor a marriage alliance?” His eyes narrowed. “And why send you, of all the people your brother has at his command?”

Sansa looked down at her hands and considered how best to approach the subject.

“Tyrion … what is she like?” She looked up at Tyrion’s face and searched it.

Tyrion’s eyes glowed. “Daenerys Targaryen?” His voice was soft, but there was a sudden fervour there as he spoke the name. “You talk about the past. Seven years ago, Daenerys had nothing,” Tyrion gestured around himself. “Now … You have seen our forces here, at this one encampment alone. She is a leader the like of which we never saw in King’s Landing. When you meet her, you will understand.”

“Clearly she is a force to be reckoned with,” Sansa said, keeping her tone respectful. Inwardly, she was amazed, and more impressed by Tyrion’s devotion than she had been by all of the Targaryen armies. She was careful not to let it show on her face. “But what it is that drives her? Does she seek power for power’s sake, or do you think she wants to be a just ruler? A queen of the people? Someone who will not shy away from her duty as protector of the realm?”

Tyrion seemed to stiffen. “Of course she will protect her people,” he said. “She is a good and just Queen, and she will protect those who are worthy of her protection.”

“Are you worthy?” Sansa asked, meeting Tyrion’s eyes calmly. “Am I?”

Tyrion furrowed his brow, but didn’t say anything.

“We are all in danger,” Sansa said. “The white walkers are coming, and they won’t care whether we have chosen a king or a queen to rule us.”

Tyrion’s face relaxed. He was not taking her seriously.

“White walkers don’t exist,” he said, his voice betraying his amusement. “And frankly, I think what you’re attempting is beneath you.”

“Why would I risk coming here and treating with you if there wasn’t a dire need?” Sansa asked sharply, narrowing her eyes. “If I felt safe in the north, why would I leave? Why would I come here and ask you to bring your army north? Why would I ask you to bring your queen and her dragons? I am not a fool, Tyrion. I know Jon and Stannis cannot defeat Daenerys with the way things stand now. But they don’t want to fight her. They want to treat with her, and they want her _help._ You said it yourself. Would Jon risk me in your camp if he was not in dire need?”

This seemed to give Tyrion pause. “Be that as it may, it could still be a trap,” Tyrion said slowly.

“It’s only a trap if you don’t prepare yourselves for the horror beyond the Wall.”

Tyrion ran his hand through his hair. “Snarks and grumkins,” he said. “I thought better of you, Sansa.”

She nodded. “I can understand your skepticism. I thought as you do, once. So did many of us.” She tried not to think of Petyr. “But I have sworn statements from every person of noble birth who is serving at the Wall, swearing to the truth of the threat. These are men of honour. Bronze Yohn. Lord Manderly. My brother Brandon Stark. Meera Reed, the heir to Greywater Watch. Stannis Baratheon. And … Jon Snow.” She took the sealed letter from her bodice and laid it on the table between them. “This is for Daenerys’s eyes only, but … he swears, by his honour, by his name, the truth of what he has seen. He begs for her help.”

Tyrion looked troubled. “The Queen could be persuaded to send a representative she trusts--”

“There is no _time_ ,” Sansa said. She felt near to weeping. Even if Tyrion helped her, she still had to travel to Oldtown to meet with Daenerys, and then wait for a representative to go to the Wall, observe, send word back then for the muster of armies. Months could pass. She had to convince Tyrion and the Targaryen Queen to help them immediately. 

Her fingers tightened on Jon’s letter.

“Tyrion … does she ever speak of her brothers? The one she lost on the Dothraki Sea … and the other. Rhaegar.”

She watched as he did a long, slow, double-take. He opened his mouth, and closed it again. Finally he said, “Why do you ask?”

Sansa looked at the letter, and for a moment it swam in front of her eyes. _I have lost so many people._ “I have to know, Tyrion. Please, just trust me on this. Did she love her brother? Does she care for Rhaegar’s memory? I have to know, before I give her this letter.” 

Tyrion looked over Sansa’s shoulder, then looked back to her. “That is a question,” he said, “that the Queen may wish to answer herself.” He rose from his seat, and looked to the fair haired woman Sansa had taken for a servant. “Your Grace?”


	26. The Dragon Queen

Sansa felt like the ground was about to fall out from underneath her as the fair haired woman stepped forward. As the light fell on her face, Sansa wondered how she could ever have mistaken her for a servant. Her bearing was utterly regal, her face cold. 

_I have ruined everything. I am such a fool._

“Leave us,” Daenerys said. She remained motionless as Tyrion and the other woman filed out. Tyrion shot Sansa a look of mute apology as he went, but she could think of little more than the Queen in front of her. 

_I’ve seen marble statues in the Great Sept with more warmth. More … humanity._

Instinctively, moving without thinking, Sansa put her hand over the letter and pulled it back towards herself. 

Daenerys raised an eyebrow.

Sansa stopped. 

_This is it. I have the audience I was seeking. This is my chance. Perhaps the only chance any of us have._

She took a breath, and engaged. 

“Your Grace,” she said. She bowed her head, briefly. “When I spoke to Lord Tyrion … I meant no disrespect.”

Daenerys eyed Sansa. She made no move to acknowledge the bow. “I have heard a great deal about you and your house, Lady Sansa. I expected to receive an emissary from the north, but I did not expect you. Nor did I think you to be coming on behalf of not one, but two, Pretenders.”

“I am here on behalf of my br -- for King Jon,” Sansa said. “Neither of us wish to be your enemy. I have come to you in good faith, seeking your aid against a common enemy.”

“There is ill blood between the Starks and the Targaryens” Daenerys said, slowly. “Your father’s rebellion is not forgotten. But I do not hold children responsible for the sins of their parents. I will be Queen of all Westeros: Baratheon, Arryn, Martell, Tyrell, Tully, Greyjoy, Lannister, and Stark. I will end the Game of Thrones.”

Sansa painted a neutral expression on her face. “As you may, Queen Daenerys.”

 _Does she always talk like that?_

Still, Daenerys was impressive, there was no doubt about that. She had an iron self-control that put Sansa in mind of some of the older Vale knights, or even Ser Barristan Selmy. There was none of Cersei’s erratic fire, or Jon’s brooding charisma, or even of Stannis’ gritty, peevish determination. She projected strength and an absolute self-confidence. Sansa wondered what lay beneath that image. 

“You doubt me,” the Queen said. “But my Hand spoke the truth about my armies. Your brother would do well to bend the knee.” Daenerys took a breath. “I … understand the value of an alliance with the Starks. You would not find me …” she swallowed, but her face was resolute. “You would not find me ungenerous.”

 _Generous._ She means that she is willing to marry Jon. Lovely, sweet, handsome Jon. _She makes it sound like a sacrifice on her part._

“And if Jon does not bend the knee to you? What then?”

Daenerys gave Sansa a cold look. Then she walked to a map of Westeros laid out on a table. Figures marked with Targaryen dragons were spread out across the east and south of the map. The Lions that faced them were far fewer. There were other forces clustered in little islands on the map -- Falcons in the Vale, Fish in the Riverlands, Stags in the Stormlands. The largest by far, nearly as extensive as the Lions, was the force of Wolves and Falcons in the North. They had been positioned around Winterfell. 

The Lions were all that stood between the Dragons and King’s Landing, and they were massively outnumbered. 

Daenerys pointed to the small castle by the river. “I shall take Riverrun in two days time. The Lannisters left it poorly garrisoned when they moved most of their forces to defend King’s Landing. They have no other true stronghold in the Riverlands -- I can leave only a few reserve forces here while I move east. I expect at least one pitched battle, maybe more, as we take defensible positions.” Her fingers moved lightly, confidently, over the map, gesturing to a ridgeline, a walled town, the Trident. “Each castle will cost us in time and men to either besiege or take. And the Lannisters would be wise to carry out a guerrilla campaign to slow us. They know the land, most of my commanders do not. But I estimate that even if fortune favours them entirely, I will have sufficient forces remaining to reach King’s Landing. My unsullied are experienced at fighting in cities. I shall sit the Iron Throne in two months, or possibly three.” 

Sansa stared at the map. _We don’t have three months._

“The real campaign will be in the north, should it come to that,” she continued. “My advisors tell me that the roads are terrible, and likely to get worse. The distances are great. And many of my men had never seen snow before they came to Westeros.” Daenerys paused. “I know that you have no reason to trust me, but I assure you that I take no pleasure in death and destruction. “The fighting will take years, even with my dragons. Many will die on both sides, and for what purpose?”

 _She’s going to give me a speech._ Sansa felt the anger flare. _I am tired of being lectured._

Cutting Daenerys off in mid-sentence about landing forces, Sansa reached out and took a double handful of the Wolf figures around Winterfell. She pushed them up the map until they all stood at Castle Black. 

“Your Grace, if you want the north, it is free for the taking,” Sansa said, and turned away. She felt like her hands were shaking. She could not even look at Daenerys. “There is nothing to oppose you except women, children, old men, and cripples. The army is not there. They are at the Wall, fighting for all our lives. They are dying. Please. Whatever you ask, you will have it. Just … help them, help them now, before it is too late.”

 _They could be dead already. Jon. Sandor. Stannis. Even Petyr._ She felt tears sting her eyes, and she was glad she was turned away from the Dragon Queen. 

There was a long silence before Daenerys spoke. “You ask a great deal of me. Tyrion tell me he knows of nothing north of the Wall but poorly armed tribes folk. Lady Sansa, have you seen these walkers with your own eyes?” 

“No. But I trust the word of those who have.”

“The word of your brother?” Daenerys asked, tilting her head to the side. “The word of your… betrothed?”

“Yes, them and others.” _Sandor._ But that name would mean nothing to the Queen. “They would not lie about something like this. They are men of honour.”

It was odd, though, Sansa could not help but think, that the word she believed most came from a man with no honour, a man who she did not trust and who would call her a fool if she did. _Petyr. Why is it that I listen to you, against all reason, against even your own counsel?_

“Honour?” Daenerys had gone very still. “Your betrothed would have murdered me and my brother if we had still been on Dragonstone when he took it. The Baratheons betrayed my family. They betrayed their own kin.”

Sansa was not sure what to say. The old arguments - King Aerys’ madness, Rhaegar and Lyanna - they all seemed so harsh now that she was faced with Daenerys herself. _I was little more than a child when Joffrey took my father’s head, but at least I knew the security of a childhood. Daenerys … she was born into peril. And if any hand had reached into that cradle to take her life … it would have most likely been Stannis’._ She wished she could say he would have done no such thing, but the words would not come to her lips. 

“Stannis did as his brother bid him do,” Sansa eventually said.

Daenerys did not respond to this. She had picked up a little stag figurine, and her eyes were fixed on it.

“Stannis Baratheon is the only family I have left,” she said after a while. “He had a daughter, did he not?”

“Shireen Baratheon, yes.”

Daenerys put the stag down. “I would never make Stannis my heir,” she said, her gaze distant. “His daughter, though … I had thought on that. Tyrion said she was an intelligent and kind-hearted child. I had hoped ...”

“She’s dead,” Sansa whispered.

They looked at one another for a moment. Daenerys’ eyes were sad.

“I know.” She looked down for a moment, but when she raised her head, her face was resolute. “It matters not. The question of the succession will be solved in due time. For now, I have a realm to conquer.” She gestured to the map with all her forces laid out. “Your betrothed is unlikely to make you Queen Consort. I do not know if that is a disappointment to you or a consolation.” 

“I would have been content to live my life at Winterfell,” Sansa said quietly. “But it does not appear to be my fate.”

“Believe it or not, I do understand,” Daenerys said, her voice just as quiet.

Their eye met, and Sansa wondered where Daenerys would have remained if she could have done so.

“I might have been content with my first husband,” Daenerys offered as if reading Sansa’s mind, a small smile touching her lips. “I would have ruled the Dothraki Sea at his side. Although I think we would have both been inclined to put our son on the throne of Westeros, had he lived.” Her eyes were sad, but her face no less resolute. 

“You loved your husband,” Sansa said. It wasn’t a question. She could tell.

“Not at first,” Daenerys said, something fragile in her eyes for less than a heartbeat. “My brother sold me to him. Like a horse.”

Sansa blinked for a moment, put off balance by Daenerys’ familiar words.

They both took subtle steadying breaths, and Sansa’s heart ached. She knew what Daenerys must have faced on her wedding night. Dothraki warlords were not known for being gentle.

“I know what that’s like,” she heard herself say before she could stop herself.

Daenerys walked up to her and took one of her hands in both of hers. They were gentle hands. Soft.

“When I have taken the throne and claimed my crown, I would have you choose your own fate, Sansa Stark. You could wed a man of your choosing, or no one at all.”

Sansa’s heart failed to beat for a moment as she took in the meaning of Daenerys’ words.

_Freedom._

_This is why her people are so loyal to her,_ Sansa thought, her heart beating impossibly fast now. Daenerys had been speaking to her for less than an hour, and yet the Dragon Queen had already promised to deliver one of the deepest desires of her heart. Promised it _sincerely._

But Sansa had made promises of her own.

“ _If_ you take the throne without helping King Jon first,” Sansa said, “I doubt I will live long enough to choose any sort of fate for myself.”

Daenerys dropped Sansa’s hands and took a step back, eyes narrowing.

“Lady Sansa, how can you be _certain_ these ‘wights’ exist if you have not seen them with your own eyes?”

Sansa did not waver. “They exist.”

There was a stretch of silence in the tent, and Sansa shivered.

 _She doesn’t believe me. She might not disbelieve … after all she has dragons. She has seen magic with her own eyes. But what I am asking her to do, to accept the word of men she has never met, and throw away the victory that is before her … she won’t do it,_ she thought to herself, her throat constricted as despair crept through her veins. _She doesn’t trust me, and how can I blame her? There seems to be good in Daenerys, but I cannot trust her, either._ She looked at Jon’s letter, but did not reach for it.

“I swear it, the white walkers are real. If they breach the Wall, all your hard work will have been for nothing. All the people you have brought here will die. You heard what I said to Tyrion. Why would my brother risk sending me here, risk my death or imprisonment at your hands? Why would Stannis risk his promised Queen and the Stark alliance with it? Why, if not that they are desperate?” 

There was another long silence. 

For the first time, doubt seemed to creep into Daenerys’ voice. “I have given you my word of your safety, Lady Sansa.” Her voice softened. “I do not wish to cause you distress, but I have heard a great deal of your past from Tyrion Lannister. Theon Greyjoy has asked me to treat you with gentleness, although he did not give reasons.” Their eyes met, and Sansa instinctively understood that Theon had not needed to give Daenerys the reasons. She knew them regardless. “Truly, you have nothing to fear from me.” 

Sansa closed her eyes. Her breath was coming fast. She could not afford to keep leaving the shared history of their families out of this. “I would not be the first Stark woman to suffer at Targaryen hands.” She turned to face Daenerys. “Lyanna Stark’s bones lie at Winterfell because of your brother Rhaegar. He kidnapped her. He _raped_ her. She was just a girl.” To her dismay, Sansa felt her eyes begin to tear. “She didn’t deserve any of it. She didn’t deserve to die.” She took the letter off the table and turned away, clutched it to her breast. _This was all a mistake, a terrible mistake._

A hand reached out and covered hers, gently, but with great strength. “Lady Sansa. I know that you do not know me, and my word may mean little to you.” 

Sansa looked up to meet Daenerys’s eyes. They were filled with compassion. 

“If I can give you justice, in some small measure, to those who have harmed you and yours, I will do so.”

And with that compassion, Sansa’s fear for Jon faded. _She seems so hard and cold, the Dragon Queen. But she is just a girl, not so much older than me. She has her armour against the world, as I do. She has been hurt, as I have. And she has learned not to trust, as I have learned._

“Why do you want the Iron Throne? Truly?” Sansa asked. 

“It is my birthright,” Daenerys said. “The throne of my father is mine by rights.”

_Her family. It is all she has left of her family._

And there was only one path forward. 

“What if I told you,” Sansa said. “That you are not the last of the Targaryens?”

And she held out Jon’s letter to the suddenly ashen Queen.


	27. Dark Days at the Wall

_King Stannis,_

_I have done as you and King Jon asked me. I have treated with the Dragon Queen and her Hand, Tyrion Lannister, and she has agreed her to bring her armies and her dragons to the Wall as quickly as she can. It was not an easy task. The plan was to take King’s Landing first, but the statements you, Lord Baelish, and the northern lords gave helped convince her of the need. I know that you and she will have many points of difference, but duty to your people is one thing you share._

_You must prepare yourselves. Daenerys is a fierce queen, and Tyrion is just as fiercely loyal to her. His advice - his knowledge of the realm - makes her more dangerous than she would otherwise have been. You will be wise to consider this when you decide how you will greet her when she arrives._

_She wants the Iron Throne, Your Grace. She wishes to re-establish Targaryen rule. Your participation in Robert’s Rebellion is neither forgotten nor forgiven. She has made Tyrion powerful, and he was not best pleased when I told him my vows to him are null and void -- though he has been courteous to me, of course. He is a kinder man than might have expected, given his family and his history._

_You have considerable work ahead of you if you wish to defend your claim and wed me._

_Queen Daenerys has taken Riverrun, and she suggests that I remain here with the forces that she is leaving behind. I have agreed to this. I hope for your safety, and for that of my brother’s._

_Your betrothed,_  
_Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell_

Stannis stared at the letter in his hands.

The fact that help was on its way sparked a surge of relief in his breast. _More men. Dragons. We might yet live to save the realm._

He was remarkably quick to move on to feeling irritated with his betrothed, however.

_Does she think I do not know that I have considerable work ahead of me?_

He blew out a breath and placed the letter on his desk, glancing briefly at the place where he had hidden Sansa’s last letter to him. He had never answered it, and he was glad of it now, after this cold missive.

Was there a single beautiful woman in the world who did not try to beguile the men around her into doing her bidding?

 _Is the idea of wedding her - the woman that dreads my touch - supposed to make me want to work harder to save the realm? My kingdom?_

Stannis started to pace around his chambers in agitation, a familiar ache in his jaw. A small part of him did feel an increased sense of urgency, but he was irritated with himself for it.

It was no great feat to be the more favourable option when compared with Tyrion Lannister. Was that not what she had been implying? That if Stannis were to lose, Tyrion might seek to reclaim her as his wife?

Stannis did not like the idea that his betrothed was attempting to manipulate him.

Stannis would do everything in his power to keep Daenerys Targaryen from taking his throne, but he would not do it just to please his betrothed. He would not do it to keep her from having to tolerate Tyrion Lannister in her bed.

He would do it because it was his _duty._ The Iron Throne was his by rights, and he would not suffer yet another pretender. 

And if he did emerge victorious, his betrothed would be his by rights, too.

***

Once the obsidian from Dragonstone was delivered, shortly after the news of Daenerys Targaryen had first reached the Wall, the fighting changed. Stannis and his men were no longer just defending the Wall and keeping it from being breached. They had started to systematically attack the vast army outside the gates, doing whatever they could to keep the white walkers from being able to swarm the Wall.

Now that Stannis had plenty of obsidian to work with, a new array of weapons and strategies were available to him. He was particularly pleased with the ability to load obsidian shards into a catapult and launch the small missiles at the enemy from a distance. It was even more effective than arrows. 

Despite Stannis’ best efforts, he lost men in every battle. The ranks were thinning, and soon Stannis would no longer be able to employ the aggressive tactics that had been affording them a tiny measure of success.

Knowing that Daenerys was on her way with fresh men was all that sustained Stannis. He had no love for the Targaryen Pretender, but strong men were needed. Fighters who weren’t tired, disheartened and jumping at every shadow due to all the horrors they had already witnessed.

The day the first soldiers of Daenerys’ army finally arrived at Castle Black was colder than Stannis would have believed possible. At least, what he would have believed before staying in the north in winter. He and Jon were wrapped in furs in the common hall, surrounded by brothers of the Watch, glowering northern lords, and a few shivering knights from the Vale. It was Yara Greyjoy and some of her men that had been the first to safely sail north. She was expected to arrive with a small guard at any moment.

“How many men did she bring?” Stannis asked Jon.

“Six hundred,” Jon muttered, looking none too pleased.

Stannis grunted. It was better than nothing, but they could have used a lot more fighters.

 _More will come. Sansa has promised it._ Stannis believed her, and not from false hope in the face of desperation. Despite being irritated with her, Stannis could admit - to himself, at least - that Sansa Stark was a capable woman. He did not doubt that she had accomplished the task she had been entrusted with. 

Yara strode into the hall as if she were a queen herself. Her guards had their hands poised over the hilts of their swords, but it was clear that they knew they would never make it out of Castle Black alive if they drew their weapons.

The customary greetings were exchanged, and Stannis ground his teeth when Yara refused to acknowledge his royal title.

Baelish had the nerve to smirk.

“Queen Daenerys has been told that there is some sort of war being fought here,” Yara said, ignoring his murderous gaze. “I was told to make haste.”

Stannis bared his teeth and was about to explain _exactly_ what sort of war they had been fighting, possibly with a demonstration, when Jon spoke up.

“Wrap yourself in all the furs you can carry,” he said gruffly, “we’re going to go take in the view.”

***

Yara and her men bought Stannis a little more time, but the mood at the Wall remained desperate. Many of the men he sent out to fight died due to the cold as much as anything else, and some of the older northern lords could be heard muttering about never having experienced such a winter.

Stannis fretted over the situation as he bent over a map of the Wall and the territory just north of it, trying to think of a new strategy.

He had actually started to look forward to seeing the Pretender who sought to usurp him, because if it was true that she had dragons, the creatures might be able to warm the air a little with their dragonfire. It was hard to remain steadfast and focus on the fact that his efforts were still keeping the white walkers at bay, when every fighter they lost was likely to return as a wight and fight for the other side in the coming battles. Hopelessness flourished in the corners of Stannis’ mind like weeds in an untended garden. 

_I need more men,_ he thought, _and I need better weapons. Weapons like the catapult that can be used from a distance._

But the only weapons that seemed to work on the white walkers were obsidian and Valyrian steel. The catapult and the arrows tipped with obsidian were the best solutions Stannis had come up with thus far, but as he did not have access to an infinite amount of obsidian, and as retrieving the black shards and the arrows after they had been launched was usually impossible, it was far from being the _ideal_ solution.

“King Stannis?”

Stannis turned around, searching for the source of the voice that had spoken. It was Jon. Petyr Baelish was by his side, a smile on his lips. 

“What is it?” Stannis asked, turning back towards his map.

“Lord Baelish has discovered something in the old records of the Night’s Watch. A document recording a visit from a Valyrian dragonlord millennia ago. He flew far north of the Wall, and claimed to have encountered the Walkers.”

Stannis immediately turned around again, his heartbeat quickening. Had Baelish actually found something? A new way to kill them, perhaps? The man was distasteful, but his intelligence could not be doubted. “What did the dragonlord say happened?” he asked.

Jon smiled. Stannis had not seen Jon smile for a very long time. His heart started beating even faster.

“Dragonfire,” Jon said, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “The white walkers can be destroyed with dragonfire.”

“We have tried fire against the wights. It works well enough if we can set them aflame, but--”

“Not fire,” Baelish interrupted. “Dragonfire. The merest touch of it takes the life from the undead, never to return. And the Walkers are destroyed utterly. It is only the word of one man, of course, and the record is old. Who knows if it is truth, or just a boast? But if it is true …” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “Well, we may all have cause to be grateful for Daenerys’ coming.” 

Sudden hope sprang up within Stannis, spreading through his entire body and warming him from within.

_There is a chance._

But almost as soon as his hope had warmed him through, it was as if an icy hand had reached into his breast and grasped his heart tightly.

_Daenerys Targaryen controls the dragons, Daenerys Targaryen will be the one who defeats the white walkers, and Daenerys Targaryen will take the Iron Throne._

Stannis had lost. He knew it as well as he knew his name. 

“What is it?” Jon asked, the triumph fading from his face to be replaced with concern.

Stannis swallowed and clenched his jaw. He might have lost his throne, but Stannis could still save his realm. “Nothing,” he snapped, unwilling to share his fears with Jon. “We must call for a war council, and send word to Daenerys Targaryen to come with all haste if she can.” He nodded in reluctant respect. Credit must be given when it was due. “Lord Baelish has done us all a great service with this information.”

Baelish bowed in acknowledgement.

***

Stannis had done everything he could to delay this moment. He had hoped Daenerys and her dragons would have arrived by now, preventing him from having to lead the brothers of the Night’s Watch, the armies of the North and the Vale, the Greyjoy forces, and all the wildlings Jon had been able to convince to join the fight into this dangerous battle.

But the white walkers had started to climb the Wall while Stannis had been waiting for reinforcements. 

The earth shook, and there were cracks in the Wall. Even the commoners among them could sense that the old magic - the protection of the Wall - was unravelling in front of the their eyes.

There was no other choice. They had to take the field now, with the men they had. The hope that the Targaryen forces would come in time was gone. 

Stannis gave the order and they marched out.

It was colder on the field than ever before. Stannis couldn’t feel his feet though he was wearing fine leather boots lined with lambskin, three thick pairs of woolen socks, and even socks of silk next to his skin. His gloves were doing a similarly poor job of protecting his fingers from the biting frost, and soon he would not be able to keep his hold on the long, obsidian-tipped spear in his hands.

Spears allowed for a much longer reach than daggers or even swords, granting the ability to kill white walkers without getting too close.

He was still surrounded by his own men, but he could see that the men nearest to him were fighting for their lives, using their own spears to stab the demons that were pressing in on them, coming closer and closer in ever increasing numbers. For every white walker that burst into a thousand shards of ice at the touch of the jagged obsidian blades, three others seemed ready to take its place.

He was so cold. Too cold to think, almost too cold to breathe. He could see that his men felt it too. Their movements were becoming sluggish. Men were falling as much from the cold as from the swords of the undead.

Stannis could hear the Hound cursing and growling somewhere in the distance, and Jon’s battle cries and the sound of his Valyrian steel blade clashing. Stannis even thought he could hear Yara Greyjoy laughing in the face of death.

He didn’t know where Davos was, but all he could do was hope that he was hale and whole.

Obsidian-tipped arrows rained down from the sky, narrowly missing the group of men that surrounded him. A few of them hit their mark, destroying walkers with the dead that had been advancing towards them, but not enough. The dead, with their glowing blue eyes, were still coming. Stannis recognised one of them as a brother of the Night’s Watch. He had spoken to him once... _What had his name been?_

One by one, the men around Stannis fell, and Stannis stumbled away from his recently fallen comrades, stabbing the wights that got in his way, knowing that the fallen might rise again at any moment -- eyes glowing blue. His only hope was to fight his way to his allies. But the ground was slick under his boots with ice and blood. He found himself on his knees. There were boots in front of him.

He looked up into the cold, inhuman face of a White Walker. It gazed down on him as if he was of no more significance than an insect. Something to be crushed without thought or emotion.

Stannis tried to tighten his hold on the spear in his hands, but it was becoming so heavy, and his fingers were weak and numb from the cold.

 _I will not kneel and let this creature kill me without a fight,_ he thought to himself, getting to his feet and straightening his posture. 

If Stannis had been Robert, he was sure he would have let out a roar as he lurched forward, stumbling towards the demon in the snow. If he had been Renly perhaps he would have had some clever last words. Stannis did not deem it wise to open his mouth. He was not sure he had the strength to shout, and the air felt cold enough as he breathed through his nose. And what did it matter, in this last moment, what words he might utter? Let his deeds speak louder than words, even if there was nobody to witness them.

He found a moment to regret, though, that he had never answered Lady Sansa’s letter.

The white walker grabbed the spear from his useless hands almost as soon as Stannis got near enough, and he closed his eyes in despair. He brought up his dagger almost reflexively. 

What would it be like to be a wight? Would he remember what it was to be a man? Would he become a mindless slave to the will of the Others? Would he still feel the freezing cold, or would he be spared that, at least?

The pain Stannis had been bracing himself for didn’t come. Instead he heard the familiar noise of a white walker bursting into a thousand shards of ice.

He opened his eyes, half expecting to see the Hound. It wasn’t Clegane. It … wasn’t anyone. There was nothing in front of him but shards of dwindling ice. It was all that was left of the Walker. Stannis looked down to his hand holding the obsidian dagger. 

_I killed it._

He looked around. The wights nearby had collapsed with the Walker’s death, and there was only the distant sounds of fighting. His men were all dead. Nobody was there. Nobody had seen, and the death of this one Walker, of the many that besieged them, was of no importance to the battle as a whole.

Stannis put his dagger back into the sheath, and picked his spear up off the ground. The fighting was moving, and he needed to get back to the battle. It was cold. He felt numb. He trudged towards the sounds of men’s screams and the clash of weapons. It all seemed very far away, no matter how much he walked. He and his men must have been driven apart from the others to be slaughtered. 

From the corner of his eye, Stannis saw movement. For a moment he was afraid another walker had found him, but then he heard muffled hoofbeats. The beasts the white walkers rode walked noiselessly in the snow.

Stannis had nothing to lose. He put himself in the rider’s path. They might perhaps return to the battle together.

The horse stilled, and Stannis met the rider’s eyes. He had a long face that held a grim expression.

“Where is my nephew?” The man asked. “Where is Jon Snow?”

Stannis realised with a shock who the man had to be. He had heard the tales of the way Benjen Stark had returned to a half-life at the hands of the Children, how he had helped Brandon Stark and Meera Reed make it to the Wall, and even if Benjen hadn’t just referred to Jon as his nephew, there was no mistaking the Stark features. 

“Out there,” Stannis said, his voice weak and hoarse. “I heard him fighting a while ago. He was still alive.”

“You must all get back to the castle,” Benjen said, “you can’t defeat the white walkers like this.”

“We couldn’t stay in the castle,” Stannis said, almost too tired to get the words out. “They were coming. They would have scaled the Wall.”

Benjen seemed to understand that Stannis was in no shape to talk about the matter and gestured for Stannis to join him in the saddle. It was sweet relief to get his feet off the frozen ground. Stannis wanted nothing more than to lean forward and hug the horse’s warm neck. 

He probably would have given into the urge if he hadn’t suddenly heard a distant, monstrous scream rend the air. Stannis had never heard a noise like it. It sent a shiver of fear down his spine, and he was not easily frightened.

“What was that?” he asked, twisting around to stare at Benjen, hoping he would know.

Benjen’s expression became yet more grim. “We’d better find out.”

The beast moved slowly through the snow, but made surprisingly good time towards the battlefield despite carrying the weight of two fully grown, armoured men. 

_Two dead men together,_ thought Stannis, and his lips twisted in grim amusement at the thought.

They arrived in time to see three enormous dragons fly over the Wall, screaming in that terrifying way, and heading right for the writhing mass of icy bodies on the field.

Stannis stared at the sky for a moment that seemed eternal, disbelief at war with relief in his mind. 

_Dragons. Real, fire-breathing dragons. We are saved._

His relief was short-lived, however. The dragonfire would kill humans just as easily as it would kill the undead. The beasts were unlikely to care who they hurt.

“Retreat!” Stannis shouted as loudly as he could, not caring about the freezing air he inhaled. He had to warn the men. They would die if he didn’t get them to turn back. “RETREAT!”

The men nearest to him picked up the chant, and soon it was as if a river had reversed its flow. The men that had been trying to drive the white walkers away from the Wall started to turn around and make their way back to the gates, even as the dragons swooped down, flying low over their heads.

Stannis knew that not everyone would make it, but hopefully his warning would save a good number of men from the flames that were surely coming.

The thought was still in his head when the first burst of heat and light erupted from the largest of the dragons. Stannis was nowhere near being close to the place where the fire hit the ground, but he still felt a wave of hot air pass over him. It was pleasant for a heartbeat or two, but when the heat was gone, the cold air seemed all the more freezing.

The white walkers and the wights seemed to melt due to the fire, disappearing as if they had never been present. The men touched by the flames were not that lucky.

The air was suddenly full of the terrified screams of burning men, and Stannis was transported back to Blackwater Bay in his mind, watching wildfire devour his ships, listening to echoes of screams that only existed in his memories.

This was how his daughter had died. Burning. Screaming.

“We have to get you to the gates,” Benjen said, signalling the horse.

Stannis didn’t care. He should be on the front lines. He should be burning right now. There was no point to his life. Melisandre had been wrong. Sansa has been wrong. He was not needed. The war against the white walkers would be won due to Daenerys Targaryen. His part was done.

He was of no use to anyone.

Had he been less exhausted from the fight and the cold he might have tried to take command of the horse and head back towards the battle, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything.

_Shireen._


	28. The Queen at the Wall

More than half the men who had taken part in the great battle outside the walls did not return. The ground was littered with the dead, and the defenders hastened to build great piles of the bodies to burn. They were low on fuel, but that was no impediment. Stannis watched from the gate as the huge black dragon torched the corpses with ease.

On his back was a small, slender figure dressed in blue. 

Somehow the sight of her, looking so small and so _human_ , helped Stannis claw his way out of the mire of hopelessness he had been sinking into since he had seen the dragons. What she had done had been heroic, but she was no more chosen than he was. The war was not over yet.

He would not give up without a fight. He might not have dragons, but he would not let it become known that King Stannis Baratheon had rolled over and given up like a lame dog. He would do his part for the realm. Contribute whatever he could to the cause, and lead his men to victory.

It was his duty.

Benjen had said something to Jon outside the gates while they were still north of the Wall, but Stannis hadn’t heard what it was. He had seen the hug the two men had shared afterwards, however, and assumed that it must have been a family matter. Benjen didn’t come through the gate with them -- the Wall’s ancient magic still held. Jon stopped to supervise the men securing the castle gate, and Stannis hurried through the tunnel and into the castle. 

Stannis searched every face in Castle Black, looking for Davos but unable to bring himself to call his name. It was not dignified.

Relief flooded through him when he finally spotted Davos. His friend had been partially hidden behind Sandor Clegane’s bulky form. It seemed as if Davos was patting the Hound’s shoulder in a comforting way.

 _The fire._ Stannis had never heard the story behind Clegane’s scars, but it was clear enough that the man had reason to fear fire.

Stannis was still in his armour when Daenerys Targaryen flew her dragons back south of the Wall, and marched into Castle Black like some hero of old, a cloak of blue-dyed fur framing her surprisingly tiny figure.

Daenerys demanded food and water for her dragons, and asked to speak to those in charge. “Have them brought to me,” were her exact words, delivered with an imperious lift to her chin. “The Baratheon Pretender, and Jon Snow.”

Jon had emerged from the tunnel and he led Daenerys and a procession of those who mattered towards the common hall. Stannis let him do it. It was easier to keep an eye on everyone from the back.

Baelish was also hanging back, much to Stannis’ irritation, but he would have ignored the man had he not given Stannis a pointed look and stepped into an alcove.

Stannis knew it would take some time for everyone to get to the common hall and situate themselves, and though his instincts told him he was making a mistake, he decided to follow Baelish and see what he wanted. If he was up to no good it would be easy to overpower him.

Stannis’ palms itched. _Just give me a reason, Baelish._

“What?” Stannis asked as soon as he had stepped into the shadowy corner Baelish had hidden himself in.

Baelish sighed. He looked… unnerved.

“Look,” he began, his face no longer betraying any hint of uncertainty. “We’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we?”

Stannis didn’t try to hide his distaste. _Unfortunately._ “Yes. And?”

“The meeting that is about to take place is important,” Baelish said. “And I know you’re going to want to… be you.” The man smirked. 

Stannis clenched his jaw and turned to leave.

Baelish had the audacity to grab his arm. “I would advise some _subtlety,_ Your Grace.”

Stannis wrenched his arm from the shorter man’s grip with more force than necessary. “I don’t need your advice.”

“Don’t you?” Baelish asked, showing his palms in a brief signal of surrender. “When have you ever made a good first impression?”

Stannis turned to leave again. This was a waste of time.

Baelish didn’t try to stop him, but he spoke to the back of Stannis’ head. “You will never sit the Iron Throne, and you will… you’ll never wed Sansa Stark if you get eaten by a dragon.” 

Stannis paused, his stomach contracting strangely. It was tempting to look over his shoulder and examine Baelish’s face. He wasn’t sure if the man was gloating… or warning him. 

Baelish wasn’t finished.

“Given some of Daenerys’ associates, I doubt that I would thrive under her rule. We may not be friends, but we need each other. I would like to see you alive at the end of the day.”

 _A warning then? Or some new scheme?_ Stannis turned around. Slowly.

Baelish’s eyes revealed nothing, but he looked as serious as he ever looked.

“What do you suggest I do?” Stannis spoke from between gritted teeth. “Abandon my claim? Bend the knee to this … girl?”

“Your Grace,” said Baelish. “I would counsel you to do nothing.” 

“Nothing?!”

“Nothing,” Baelish said firmly. “There is a war on. A war against the dead. Remind her of that. Put off the determination of claims until the realm is secure.” There was a light in his eyes. “Let the Dragon Queen posture and speak of claims. The men here have all fought with you these months. You have nothing to gain by challenging her now, when she is the hero of the hour, and much to lose.” 

Stannis shook his head. It seemed like madness, and he had no time for Baelish’s games. 

Without another word, Stannis turned his back on Littlefinger, and left.

He walked quickly to the common hall, though his muscles complained of the haste. He was starting to stiffen up. He could hear Baelish following, but he never looked back.

Jon looked relieved when Stannis entered the hall, and Stannis did not waste any time before taking his place next to the young king. Daenerys had established herself in a chair, her blue-dyed furs arranged around herself. She looked utterly regal. Yara Greyjoy was by her side, smiling. 

His hands and feet hurt terribly now that warmth was returning to the limbs, but Stannis was determined not to show his discomfort when he spoke.

“It took you long enough to get here, Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, his voice hoarse due to all the shouting he had been doing on the freezing battlefield.

Daenerys lifted her chin, her eyes shooting sparks. “I would have expected you to be a little more grateful, _Stannis Baratheon,_ ” she said, glancing at Yara as she spoke his name. Yara nodded almost imperceptibly. “I did just save your life,” Daenerys added, her tone imperious.

“Would you like a prize?” Stannis scoffed. _She’ll have to get in line after the Hound._

Davos shifted from foot to foot where he stood. Stannis looked at his face, and saw that Davos was staring at Daenerys as if he’d never seen a woman before. A further look at the others in the room revealed that most of the men present were staring at Daenerys in something approaching awe. Even Robert had never dominated a room like this.

 _Ridiculous._ Stannis thought, and then paused. _Perhaps, Baelish was right._ It was a strange thought, but the odious man was no fool. 

“No, I would like you to bend the knee,” Daenerys said, lifting an eyebrow. “I am your Queen.”

“Are all the white walkers dead? And all their wights destroyed?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge her claim.

Daenerys frowned. “No. There were too many. My dragons needed rest. I came with all haste once I received your message about the dragonfire. You were fortunate I made it in time. But the dragons are exhausted.”

“No one will rule the Seven Kingdoms while the white walkers still threaten to cross the Wall,” Stannis bit out, grimacing as another jolt of searing pain swept through him. He knew the pain was a good sign, however. It meant that he would probably keep his fingers and toes. Perhaps there would be black blisters, but eventually he would heal.

To his surprise, there was a murmur of agreement at his words. 

Daenerys pressed her lips together tightly and narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“He means that we should fight this war together,” Jon spoke up, his voice strong and steady. “Once our common enemy has been defeated, you can figure out who should sit on the Iron Throne.” He came to stand before the Pretender. “Thank you for coming, Daenerys,” he said, and his voice was softer. “I am Jon Snow.” 

Daenerys looked at Jon with an expression Stannis could not read, but he could tell that something unsaid was passing between them. Her eyes were fixed on his face, like there was nobody else in the room. 

He shifted uncomfortably, ducked his head, and then smiled at her. It was that kind of folksy, awkward smile that always annoyed Stannis. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’m glad you are here.” 

Daenerys suddenly looked very young, and for a moment it was as if she was blinking back tears. An answering smile touched her lips. 

The quiet moment was disrupted when Littlefinger took a small step forward, his eyes glinting in the dimly lit room. “A clever ruler never discards a player that might still be of some use,” Baelish said, a smirk playing on his lips. He looked at Stannis after he had spoken. Stannis glared at the irritating little man. _I don’t need your help._

Daenerys looked at Yara again. Yara gave another near-imperceptible nod. Daenerys rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine. You may assist me,” she said, looking at Stannis as if he were a speck of dirt. Something to be ignored until she felt like having it washed away. “When I have destroyed the threat to my kingdom, I will go on to destroy all those who oppose my rule. Those who bend the knee will be spared.”

Once she had spoken, she looked at Jon, and another significant look passed between them.

With a nod that looked rather like a signal, Daenerys turned around and marched right back out the way she had arrived. Yara lingered for a moment longer, smirking at him and Jon. When she left the hall, several Greyjoy men followed in her wake.

Once they were gone, Stannis took a close look at Jon. The younger man was flushed, and his eyes were full of turmoil.

“Seven hells, Snow,” Stannis muttered, “she’s only a _woman._ ” He found himself with a bitter taste in his mouth. The looks the two of them had been giving each other was clear enough. _Damn fools, we are in the middle of a war._ He forced himself not to think of the implications if they were to … court. 

Jon flushed a deeper shade of red and rushed from the room.

Stannis did not fail to notice that the young king was going in the same direction as Daenerys.

***

When he returned to his quarters, they were cold and dark. His squire had been drafted to care for the wounded. There was no fire in the grate. Stannis fetched wood from the meager stores. With some trouble, he managed to catch a spark. When the logs were burning -- a thin, pathetic flame -- he held his numb hands out.

It was a long time before he felt warm enough to shed his armour and peel off his filthy undergarments. A rag dipped in a bucket of ice-cold water had to substitute for a bath. He gritted his teeth. At last he was clean of the blood and ash and sweat of the battlefield.

He doubted he would ever feel truly clean of it. 

To his surprise, as he turned to his bed, he found a folded parchment resting on the pillow. Curious, he picked it up. The seal was the direwolf. He sat down at his desk and opened it.

_King Stannis,_

_The riverlands seem strangely empty now that Daenerys has taken her army and gone north. I am in residence in the seat of my mother’s family, and the Lords of the Riverlands seem to welcome my presence. At my request, and that of my uncle Edmure, they are gathering what men they can to send to your aid. I know that you and everyone at the Wall are risking your lives; I wish I could do more._

_The people here have suffered much in the wars of these last years. They continue to fear the Lannisters and the Ironborn. I find I do not know what to tell them about the threat in the north. Perhaps it is best that they do not understand the horror that you fight, so that if the worst comes they may have some time of peace first._

_For all the suffering here, Riverrun is a place of great beauty. Winter has not truly set in here, not as it has in the north. There is a light snow on the trees and the children are playing by the riverbanks below my window. I look out at them, and pray that the worst does not come._

_I hope for your safety, and above all, for your victory._

_I know I have no right to ask, but please allow me this one request. If you can, please keep my brother safe._

_Your betrothed,_  
_Lady Sansa Stark_

The penmanship was beautiful, nearly as lovely as the woman who had written it. Stannis imagined he could almost detect her fragrance clinging to the paper and the flowing script. He imagined her sitting in Riverrun, a place of beauty, of safety. He imagined her face as she reached out to him, over and over, and received nothing in return. 

_I should answer this. I must answer this._

Stannis stared at Sansa’s letter and then at the blank piece of parchment he had placed on his desk next to it. The pen felt unusually heavy in his hand.

He did not know what he should write. All he knew was that he might not get many more chances to communicate with his betrothed. He did not want to face the coming battles with unnecessary regrets.

He dipped his pen in the ink.

_Lady Sansa,_

He wrote the words, and then stared at the blank space underneath them. He tapped his quill on the page, but it stubbornly refused to fill.

Should he thank her for her letters, or reprimand her for their tone? Promise to make all efforts to protect her brother, or remind her of the likelihood that any such efforts would be futile? Remind her of her duty, should the worst befall them? Or should he make a doubtlessly futile attempt at penning endearments, even if it accomplished nothing but to make himself look like a fool? 

The page remained stubbornly blank. 

With an irritated sigh, he put the pen down and rubbed his eyes. It was late. He should be sleeping.

Perhaps he would be able to come up with the right words tomorrow.

Or the day after.


	29. Dragonriders

Daenerys had not listened to Stannis’ advice. She had not listened to Tyrion’s advice about how she should listen to Stannis’ advice, either. Perhaps she would have listened to Varys, as he was apparently one of her closest advisors, but he had elected to stay in the south to help keep the Lannisters contained, and could not tell her how foolish she was being.

Thus, as soon as her army arrived, she had decided to lead a charge, trusting in her dragons and the sheer number of men she commanded to see her to victory.

Daenerys did not take into account that her men were Dothraki savages and Unsullied soldiers, unused to the cold. Unused to the snow. Unprepared for the horror of the white walkers and their wights.

More lives were lost in that single battle than in all the battles against the white walkers up until then.

Drogon had nearly been brought down from the sky, leaving Daenerys shaken and upset. The loss of much of her Dothraki khalasar upset her even more.

“I need riders for my other dragons,” she said to Tyrion, not knowing that Stannis was listening. “They only know how to follow Drogon. If something should happen to me or him, they would probably just fly away.”

“I could try,” Tyrion said, “they let me touch them once. If you were with me, perhaps one of them would let me ride them.”

Stannis walked away, shaking his head at Tyrion’s presumption.

But it appeared that Daenerys did not deem Tyrion presumptuous. A week after Stannis overheard their conversation, Tyrion was sitting on the back of a dragon, flying in uncertain circles over the Lance, the tallest tower of Castle Black.

Stannis happened to be nearby when Tyrion returned to the castle after the flight, and he observed the look of raw exhilaration on the dwarf’s face before Tyrion schooled his features at the sight of him.

“Have you come to admire me?” Tyrion asked with a surprisingly straight face.

“No,” Stannis said, frowning.

“Well, why not? I am dragonrider, now.” Tyrion’s eyes sparkled with life. With joy.

Stannis wondered what joy was like. He could not recall.

“You are hardly the only one,” Stannis muttered.

“There is just me and Queen Daenerys,” Tyrion said at once, raising an eyebrow.

“There will be a third soon enough.” _Me, perhaps._

Tyrion laughed. “You think she’ll ask _you?_ ”

Stannis tensed and clenched his jaw. He had not thought he was that transparent. “I am her kin.”

Tyrion shrugged. “That may well be, but I have no Targaryen blood, and Viserion was happy enough to accept me regardless. And I am not a rival claimant to her throne.”

Stannis had nothing to say to that, so he kept quiet.

“You know who she’s going to ask,” Tyrion said after a moment of silence. His tone voice was low and serious, and he glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening.

Stannis scowled.

This made Tyrion smirk. “So you’ve noticed?”

“I’d have to be blind not to,” Stannis spat out, frustration welling up within him.

“Must sting,” Tyrion mused, cocking his head to the side, “to know that King Jon has found a better way to unite the north and the south. But don’t worry, I’m sure there will still be a place for you under Queen Daenerys’ regime. Not in the arms of our sweet Sansa, of course, but … Perhaps you might stay here? Join the Watch? You’d feel right at home with all the other murderers.”

Somehow Stannis’ sword found its way to his hand, unsheathed.

Tyrion eyed the blade warily and held up two empty hands. “I see I’ve upset you. I meant no offence,” he said. “Sansa said that you regretted Shireen’s death. But … what are regrets worth? She was a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve to die.” 

Stannis sheathed his sword, turned on his heel, and marched off before he was tempted to change his mind about sparing the dwarf.

It took him a long time to calm down, but Tyrion was wise enough to avoid him for the next few days, which helped. The fact that Tyrion was right about who Daenerys chose as the final dragonrider did _not_ help.

Jon was on Rhaegal’s back less than a week after Tyrion started to ride Viserion, and though Jon was a busy man, he and Daenerys could be found in each other’s company more often than not. They seemed to be in each other’s confidence, and they were always whispering things to one another, and going quiet when anyone came close to overhearing their secret conversations.

It rankled that Daenerys had not approached Stannis first. Stannis didn’t care about what Tyrion had said. The fact remained that he was the only person at the Wall aside from Daenerys to have Targaryen blood in his veins, and not being so much as _asked_ seemed a very intentional slight. Stannis did grudgingly admit that it would not have been a very intelligent strategy on Daenerys’ part to give her strongest rival for the Iron Throne a dragon to ride, and yet...

And yet he could not chase away the thought of what it must be like to mount a dragon and soar through the sky.

If Robert had been alive, Stannis did not doubt that he would have found a way to ride one. 

… Or kill one with his hammer. What a hunting tapestry that would have made.

It took several weeks for Tyrion and Jon to become adept at steering their dragons, and while they learnt how to control their winged monsters, Stannis spent his days trying to convince Daenerys that they would not win against the white walkers without employing intelligent strategies. _His_ strategies. Even with Tyrion’s help, Stannis doubted that Daenerys would manage to come up with any strategies that came close to being better than his own.

Due to the heavy losses she had sustained when she had tried to do things her way, and the advice of several of the people she seemed to trust, she started to listen.

Stannis suspected Jon’s influence.

Stannis tried not to think about what the burgeoning relationship between Jon and Daenerys would mean once the war against the white walkers was won. Daenerys’ claim to the south was strong - albeit _false_ \- and Jon held the north. Tyrion had been right. Together they could rule Westeros. Easily.

Jon would not have to give Stannis Lady Sansa’s hand.

It was tempting to leave Jon and Daenerys to fight the white walkers on their own. Tempting to walk into the night and let the darkness swallow him.

But Stannis had a duty to the realm. _His_ realm. He knew that his strategies would save countless lives and shorten the war. He could not leave Jon and Daenerys to fend for themselves. Eventually, the combined efforts of himself and Jon convinced Daenerys to allow Stannis to plan the final battle. Even Tyrion had spoken up for Stannis, despite their differences. 

That afternoon, tired from hours of argument, his eyes burning from reading dispatches, Stannis sat in front of the maps, mulling how to make three undersized dragons do work that would daunt Balerion the Dread. He had been at it some time before he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He wasn’t alone. 

“After I win this war,” Daenerys said, “You shall bend the knee, Stannis Baratheon.”

Stannis scowled at the little chit and wished - not for the first time - that she had stayed in exile.

“If this war against the Others is won,” Stannis said through gritted teeth, “it will be because King Jon and I held the Wall until you got here, and once you did, you did what I told you to do.”

Daenerys tilted her head to the side. “I pity the Lady Sansa.”

Stannis forgot to scowl for a moment. Why was Daenerys bringing his betrothed up?

“She deserves so much better,” Daenerys added, letting her eyes drift over his form in a rather insolent way.

His scowl back in full force, Stannis narrowed his eyes for good measure. “What she deserves is of no consequence,” he bit out. “After _I_ win this war and claim the Iron Throne, she will be mine by rights.”

There was a moment of dead silence.

“Tell me,” Daenerys said. Her face was absolutely blank, her voice emotionless. “Is it your desire to be the last member of your once noble House? You seem to be working hard to make it so.” 

She glanced at the front of his breeches, making him wonder whether she was threatening to kill him or castrate him. 

Neither choice seemed very appealing.

“No. It is my duty to see that my line continues,” Stannis said, choosing to ignore Danerys’ unspoken threat. “And I intend to be more successful at joining houses with the Starks than my brother was.” He bared his teeth for a moment, glaring fiercely at the little girl who thought to challenge him.

“It is only a betrothal,” Daenerys said dismissively, unperturbed by his glare.

“Betrothals matter,” Stannis said. “They are the bond by which alliances between houses are forged and peace is made. Lyanna was promised to Robert, and with her, an alliance between House Baratheon and House Stark. For the Crown Prince to shred that promise was cause enough for war.”

Daenerys’s eyes flared. “My entire family died for House Baratheon’s pride?”

“No!” Stannis ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Cause enough, not the actual cause. Nobody wanted war over Lyanna. The matter could have been solved by negotiation. It _should_ have been solved by negotiation.” He looked at her. “The war was fought because when Rickard Stark came to talk, your father burned him alive.”

Daenerys paled. 

“Has nobody told you that story?” Stannis took a breath. “Rhaegar vanished with Lyanna. For moons, there was no word of her. Her brother Brandon Stark rode to King’s Landing to challenge the prince. He was imprisoned for treason. His father Rickard -- Lady Sansa and King Jon’s grandfather -- travelled to King’s Landing to parlay with the King. He asked for a trial by combat to determine his son Brandon’s guilt on the charges. It was his right as a man of noble blood, and as the King’s vassal, to have the charges determined by a trial.”

“If my father refused, he was wrong.” Daenerys’ face was cold and blank. It was like talking to a wall. 

Stannis decided to forge on. 

“He didn’t refuse. He granted Rickard’s request. And he named fire as his champion.”

The room was dead silent. 

“He hung Lord Stark over a fire and burned him alive in his armour.”

Daenerys looked away, and it made Stannis seethe. Brandon Stark had not been given the chance to avert his eyes. He had been forced to _watch._

Thankfully, Jon and Tyrion had arrived on the scene before Stannis had a chance to say anything else. He had been on the cusp of saying something very unwise.

***

On the night before the battle he had planned down to the last meticulous detail, with contingency plan upon contingency plan in place, Stannis sat on his bed and stared at the wall opposite, thinking of things he had not given himself time to consider since Daenerys had arrived at the Wall.

Things like the repercussions of his possible (second) death.

 _If I die, it will be the end of House Baratheon._ The Baratheon name might not be as old as the Stark name, but Stannis had the blood of the Storm Kings in his veins, and the Storm Kings could be traced back to the Age of Heroes.

He doubted that Daenerys would see fit to legitimise one of Robert’s bastards. If any of them yet lived. That boy Melisandre had found - Gendry - had escaped from Dragonstone, but Stannis did not know if he had survived. Daenerys would no doubt be pleased to have the Baratheon name erased from the history books.

It saddened him to think that his name would be lost, his bloodline in the hands of powerless common bastards.

If Shireen were still alive there would be hope.

She wasn’t.

The best Stannis could hope for was a glorious death on the battlefield. If his death was heroic, his name would perhaps not be forever be tarnished by his horrific mistakes.

But Stannis knew all too well that there was no such thing as a glorious death.

Yet he could not imagine life under the rule of Daenerys Targaryen. He could not imagine that she would allow him any sort of dignified existence even if he bent the knee. He found it likely that she would do as Tyrion had suggested and sentence him to stay at the Wall for the rest of his days, serving as a member of the Night’s Watch.

He would not bend the knee.

If he survived the coming battle, he would therefore probably be eaten by a dragon for refusing to acknowledge Daenerys as his queen.

In any case, he would most likely not be wedding Sansa Stark. He would not be saving her from the likely fate of becoming the Lady of Casterly Rock, and he would not be siring any heirs with her.

The thought left him feeling hollow.

Stannis walked over to his desk and examined the letter he had been working on for what seemed like months, a sentence here and there, late at night.

_Lady Sansa,_

_King Jon, Daenerys Targaryen, and I have agreed to work together to destroy our common foe. I do not know what will happen once the fighting is done, but we all know that losing against the white walkers is not an option. The stakes are high: victory, or death to all._

_You wrote once that you dread our wedding night. Such a night may never come to pass. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to tell you that I take no pleasure in bedding women who dread the thought of my touch. If I am able to defeat the enemy, crush the Pretenders that seek to steal my crown, and take King’s Landing, we will be wed. But I will expect you to do your duty only as often as it is required to conceive an heir. I will ask no more than that. You have my word that I will not take other women to my bed nor shame you with any bastards. I will endeavor to treat you with the honour and respect you deserve._

_In the event of my death you will owe me nothing, and I will ask nothing of you. I might hope that you would remember me, at least, as a man who did his best for the realm._

_By the hand of your betrothed,_  
_Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Southron Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

He had known her for only a few short weeks, but in his mind Sansa Stark had become associated with everything he lacked here at this cursed wall. Perhaps … everything he had lacked his whole life. Beauty, graciousness, warmth, caring. The natural cycle of noble life -- a marriage, a seat, heirs, providing for the future. A family. None of that would be his now.

Perhaps Daenerys was right. Perhaps he was not worthy of Sansa. The sins of his first life were too terrible, his failures too great. He thought of the family he had lost, Selyse and Shireen, of Renly, and old Maester Cressen. He even thought of Robert. It was fitting that their memory be his companions now, and not the thought of the fire-haired girl with the blood of kings who had been so briefly promised to him. He could feel the shades gathering, and he was not sorry to keep their company on this night. He would be joining them soon enough.

There was one thing he could do for Sansa, he thought, as the words of her last letter came back to him. He could do what he could to protect the life of her brother, Jon Snow. The young man was not only the realm’s best hope, he was precious to Sansa. Stannis would do what he could to see that the boy lived, in honour not only of that good lad’s friendship, but also of the lady who had given him so much and asked for so little. 

But for now, he would think of the dead that he had loved, and failed, and lost.


	30. The Last Battle

Stannis planned to be in the vanguard for most of the battle, if it went to his plans. Daenerys had said that when she had charged with her dragons and most of her men, the creatures had focused on trying to get Drogon down from the sky; they moved to attack the dragon when he flew low over the horde beneath. It was impossible to communicate with the dragonriders while they were in the air, but Stannis had told them all what they should do. Jon was supposed to focus on blocking any escape attempts to the east, Tyrion was to block escape attempts to the west, and Daenerys was supposed to draw the fire, and if necessary, to make sure the creatures did not retreat to the north. He would lead the forces on the ground. He had contingency plans, of course, but he hoped they would not be necessary. Their chances were slim enough even if the Others fell into the trap he was setting. 

Jon came to Stannis after Daenerys and Tyrion had gone to mount their dragons, and Stannis bit back an impatient word. Why had Jon not left with them?

“Here,” Jon said, holding out a sheathed sword. _Longclaw._

Stannis stared at the hilt of the infamous blade, but did not reach for it.

“It won’t be of any use to me in the sky,” Jon said, his countenance serious. “I want you to have it.”

Stannis stared at Jon’s face now, and swallowed. Words would not come.

Jon’s serious expression disappeared for a moment, a smile of amusement appearing on his lips and in his eyes. “I’ll want it back after the battle, of course.”

Sansa’s plea echoed in Stannis’ mind. _Keep my brother safe._

“I’ll take it on one condition,” Stannis said, still not reaching for the sword.

“Name it,” Jon said, his face serious again.

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Stannis said, meeting Jon’s eyes and holding his gaze. “There are those who would mourn your loss.”

Jon seemed taken aback for a moment, but he masked his surprise well. He nodded, and held the sword out more insistently.

Stannis did not take it. “Swear it,” he said, taking a step forward and lowering his voice.

Looking a little wary, Jon nodded again. “I swear.”

They stared at each other for several heartbeats, steam rising from their noses with each breath they exhaled.

Stannis took the sword, and watched in silence as Jon walked away.

The battle did not go entirely as planned.

Stannis was forced to change tactics when the white walkers didn’t behave as expected. The vanguard Stannis was supposed to have been a part of had been poised to follow Daenerys. Their best, most experienced fighters had been meant to be in this group. Sandor Clegane, Yara, Grey Worm, and Tormund among others. Every man was armed with the sharpest of the obsidian-tipped spears, and Ghost had been meant to go with them, too. Their role would have been to make sure the white walkers would not be able to pull Daenerys and Drogon down from the sky while the other dragons attacked from the sides.

Instead, the white walkers and their wights appeared to focus on the men on the ground. The dragons could not use their fire to its full potential for fear of killing their own men. Stannis ordered the best fighters to stay with the foot soldiers instead, making sure the front lines held while he repositioned his forces. 

Stannis wanted to stay with the vanguard, but he needed to remain behind where the ground was higher, where he had more oversight. He therefore kept close to the catapults and observed the way the white walkers were organising themselves. It seemed obvious to him that they were keeping the route to the woods in the north clear, and if Stannis was right, it was this route that they would use if they needed to retreat. _They must not be allowed to hide among the trees._ Daenerys was responsible for burning the wights that fled north, but it would not be practical to burn the entire forest down. It would exhaust the dragon.

But thanks to the long nights he had spent preparing for this battle, Stannis had a plan for just this situation.

With a gesture of his hand he beckoned Davos over to his side.

“Your Grace?”

“Remember what we discussed? The woods?”

Davos nodded.

“Take the archers, and... be careful.”

“I will, Your Grace,” Davos said, nodding again. For a moment he did not move, and it seemed to Stannis that he was about to speak. Their eyes met, but no words came. None were needed.

The freezing air felt even colder after Davos was gone from sight, and Stannis closed his eyes for a moment.

Going behind enemy lines was a treacherous undertaking, but if anyone could do it and survive, it was Davos. His old friend would make sure the wights could not retreat to the woods and hide among the trees.

For a while the battle raged in as orderly a fashion as any battle Stannis had ever witnessed. The foot soldiers were slowly but surely beating the dead back, the catapults were on target, and the dragons could be heard screaming and breathing fire in the distance. Everything was going suspiciously well. 

Stannis didn’t like it.

He had been fighting these wily creatures for months, and he knew something was not as it should be.

He had barely finished the thought when he heard a sound that reminded him of the sea during a storm. A shadow covered the snow-laden battlefield. He looked up, a feeling of dread creeping up his spine. Towering stormclouds were appearing unnaturally fast where the sky had been clear before. The sun had not been particularly bright, and the sky had only been a dull grey, but now everything was turning black.

Dark magic was in the air. Something terrible was about to happen. Stannis could feel it in his bones.

He drew his sword, wanting the comfort of a ready blade, and scanned the darkening field, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His gaze was drawn to the centre of the enemy’s army. The wights there had gone perfectly still. The only movement came from a white walker in their midst. The creature wore a jagged crown: Stannis recognised the descriptions of the Night’s King. The demon had raised his hands to the sky in something that might have been supplication, had it not looked so threatening. 

There was a loud _thunk._

Stannis whipped his head around, looking for the source of the sound. Terror filled his guts with ice.

“SHIELDS!” he roared, immediately sheathing his sword and yanking his shield up to protect his head. More thunks sounded all around, drowning out the noise of his men scrambling to get their shields into place.

It was hail unlike anything Stannis had seen in his life. Missiles the size of fists that rained down from the sky and knocked several of his men unconscious before they were able to find shelter. It was impossible to fight in these conditions. The unnatural cold was bad enough - Stannis’ feet had already gone numb - but this…

Stannis had no contingency plan for this. He didn’t know what to do. He knew of no tactic for fighting the weather. None that did not involve burning innocents at the stake.

_We’ve lost._

Helpless, he could do nothing but watch as the tides of the battle turned. The wights were impervious to the hail, and the foot soldiers on the battlefield were practically defenseless. Stannis knew that most men could not hold a heavy shield above their head and fight effectively at the same time. Perhaps a man like the Hound, with his extraordinary strength, could do it. But the common men were being slaughtered. Their screams surrounded Stannis … and it was clear from the sound that the wights were moving towards the catapults. 

_Perhaps if the Night’s King could be killed,_ Stannis thought, looking down at Longclaw’s hilt, _the hail would stop…_

He did not know how he might possibly fight his way through the horde of wights to the creature at the centre, but he did know that he would rather die trying than continue to cower under his shield.

Stannis had only taken one step, however, when a burst of flame in the distance distracted him. Daenerys Targaryen had flown over to the Night’s King, and Drogon was hovering directly over the creature’s head.

It was as if time itself stood still. All the sounds of the raging storm and the battle seemed to fade away.

Drogon shot another tongue of flame down at the ground, but an unnatural gust of wind shielded the Night’s King. Some of the wights surrounding him melted away. He stood tall, untouched.

It was horrifying to watch and be unable to help, but there were legions of wights separating Daenerys from the foot soldiers that would have helped her if they could, and the Night’s King was well out of range of the catapults. 

Stannis searched the sky for the other dragons, but Tyrion was probably too far away to see what was happening, and Jon… Jon was coming closer, though he still had a long distance to cover.

_Don’t do anything foolish, boy._

Drogon landed right in front of the Night’s King, crushing a fair few wights under his bulk. Daenerys dismounted, and stood unarmed in front of the Night’s King’s crystal blade. Stannis was filled with dread at the sight, and the hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He watched two white walkers and countless wights advancing towards the dragon’s powerful wings, and had to suppress the absurd urge to cry out a warning. The creatures would disable the dragon, Stannis was sure of it.

Daenerys stood quite still. _She’s tempting the Night’s King closer._ Stannis couldn’t look away. 

Jon and Rhaegal were almost at the scene.

The white walker’s sword was poised to strike.

He was too far away to hear what Daenerys said or see her lips move, but Stannis imagined that a second before the world exploded into nothing but fire and ice, she must have said something like, “ _Dracarys._ ”

When the smoke cleared, Rhaegal was screaming. _Did he understand that Drogon had fallen? Could he sense that Daenerys, his mother, had sacrificed herself?_

Somewhere in the distance Viserion was screaming, too.

There was a wide circle of destruction around Drogon’s carcass. The snow had melted, and soot stained the ground black. Every single white walker and wight that had been near the beast was gone. Destroyed.

A small figure with silver hair lay on the ground at Drogon’s side, and Stannis stared at it for several painful breaths. But the enemy was regrouping rapidly, and he could not afford to stay motionless with shock for much longer.

The hail was gone. His men could fight again.

Stannis unsheathed Longclaw and pointed the Valyrian blade at the enemy. “Loose!” he commanded, watching as a heavy load of obsidian was launched at the throng of white walkers and wights where it was thickest. The obsidian destroyed a satisfying number of foes where it landed, creating a large hole in the enemy ranks.

Stannis began to march forward, determined to join the fray.

It was bloody, it was complete chaos, and it was freezing in a way that had some of the men dropping to their knees from the cold, never to rise back up again. Stannis lost count of the wights he stabbed, the white walkers he beheaded, and the screams he heard.

But Jon was _here_ and Rhaegal was was enraged, breathing fire in rapid bursts that allowed the wights no room to escape. Tyrion was closing in from the west, and Davos and his archers had started to advance from the woods in the north.

 _The end is coming,_ Stannis thought as he and his men marched ever forward, boxing the enemy in from the south.

_I am going to win._


	31. Aftermath

Stannis had never seen a king or queen mourned like Daenerys Targaryen. 

The Dothraki had died, almost to the last man, but the few left said that Daenerys Targaryen was the stallion who mounted the world. Watching them speak of her in hushed, respectful tones made Stannis feel uncomfortably as if he were witnessing the birth of a new religion.

The Unsullied remained stoic, but their leader, Grey Worm, shed tears when he did not think any of his men could see him. Stannis had spotted the translator, Missandei, comforting him in a secluded corner of Castle Black.

Tyrion seemed shaken to his core, and Stannis often saw him sitting alone, drinking the swill the wildlings made from goat’s milk and staring vacantly at his tankard.

Most surprisingly, Jon seemed utterly devastated by the death of the khaleesi. Stannis had never seen Jon look so consistently pale and strained. Ghost was the only creature that Jon wanted any contact with, and in the absence of his leadership, Sandor Clegane had taken it upon himself to tell the remaining brothers of the Night’s Watch what they should be doing. 

There was much to do, for all of them. Stannis ordered the unwounded to keep moving. There were tasks aplenty for every able man: burning bodies, organising supplies, mending, healing, mourning. 

Stannis had not expected resistance to his claim under these circumstances. He was, as so often the case, unpleasantly surprised. Yara Greyjoy declared her intention to crown herself queen of the Iron Islands, and was even making noise that she was Daenerys’ natural successor. Stannis could not let that sort of behaviour go unchecked. He refused to deal with another Greyjoy rebellion in his lifetime.

A few days after the battle, Stannis had had enough. He summoned Yara to the common hall to discuss the matter of succession. He had meant for them to be alone, knowing that the common hall was usually empty when no meals were being served, but Yara brought a dozen strong men from the Iron Islands with her.

“Daenerys left my brother Theon in charge of a contingency of Unsullied soldiers in the south,” Yara said, her eyes narrowed, “she even left Varys there to advise him, so she clearly meant for the Greyjoys to be her seconds.”

Stannis resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. According to what Sansa had told him when he had been in Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy was a wreck of a human being. He had no doubt been left behind because he would be of no use on the battlefield.

“I am the King of Westeros,” Stannis snapped at her, “the Greyjoys have never had a claim to the Iron Throne. I am the heir of King Robert Baratheon, the rightful King. Daenerys Targaryen may have hoped to conquer Westeros, but she is dead and her cause with her.” 

“What are you going to do?” Yara scoffed. “You don’t have the men to defeat the Lannisters. The Unsullied were loyal to Daenerys and they won’t serve you. My men certainly won’t serve you. The wildlings don’t serve anyone at all. What support do you have? The Vale and a few cowardly lords who hoped you would ride to save them?”

Stannis wished Davos was in the hall with him, but his Hand was occupied with the healers.

“What is it that you want, Yara Greyjoy?” Stannis asked through clenched teeth. “What had Daenerys promised you?”

“I had wished to rule the Iron Islands,” Yara said with a smirk, “but now I think I will sit on the Iron Throne.”

“You have no claim to the throne, Yara, and Stannis has more support than you think. He has mine.” The words were spoken by a strong voice somewhere behind Stannis. Stannis could tell it was Jon; he did not have to turn around to look. “I am King in the North. I am a dragonrider, and I am King Stannis’ ally.”

King Jon Snow marched into the hall with several of his most loyal followers in tow. Ghost was absent.

The young king’s words sent a strange jolt through Stannis. It was startlingly pleasant to hear Jon take his side. _Soon we will be kin. Through Sansa we shall be brothers._

“Tyrion Lannister is a dragonrider, too,” Yara said. 

“And who does he serve?” Stannis countered. “I doubt it is you.”

“Why don’t we ask him?” Yara looked to one of her men. “Send for Lord Lannister.”

Jon stirred. “Send for the representatives of Dorne and Highgarden, too,” he told one of his men. “They have a stake in this as much as anyone.”

 _This is becoming an impromptu council,_ Stannis thought. His throat felt dry.

There was a tense silence while they waited.

“Unhand me,” Tyrion said as soon as Yara’s man had finished dragging him to the hall. His voice was slurred and his eyes were unfocused and bleary. Stannis marked Lord Baelish slinking into the room after Tyrion, disappearing into a dark corner to lurk. Sandor Clegane entered on his heels, taking a position in the shadows on the opposite side of the room, glowering at Baelish. 

The Lords who had commanded the forces of Dorne and the Reach soon arrived. Both looked puzzled. 

Before Yara had a chance to say anything, Jon spoke up.

“Yara Greyjoy thinks she should sit the Iron Throne. I, however, am King Stannis’ ally, and I will support his claim because he is the rightful king of the southron kingdoms. I will support him with everything I have at my disposal, including my dragon. Yara thinks you will support her with your dragon, Lord Lannister. Is she correct?”

Tyrion rubbed his eyes and grimaced. “Wait … what?”

“He’s drunk,” Stannis said, feeling irritated and utterly frustrated with the way things had been progressing ever since the battle.

Tyrion glared at Stannis. “You didn’t let me finish.”

Stannis crossed his arms and glared right back.

“I don’t understand why on earth I should support Yara. I am a dragonrider. My sister currently sits on the Iron Throne. Perhaps I will just support _her._ ”

Stannis doubted Tyrion meant a word of what he was saying. Everything Stannis knew of Cersei and Tyrion made him think that Tyrion would sooner resurrect and support the Night’s King than his own sister. But the Lannister seemed to delight in stirring up trouble. 

Jon opened his mouth, but just then a single horn blast sounded. 

_Friendly riders._

And outside, there was the commotion of gates opening. Stannis saw Jon’s eyes widen, and for a moment he felt convinced that Jon knew something that none of the others did. When Yara started to speak, he interrupted her with a curt direction to wait. Yara looked mutinous, but she did as Jon directed her. Stannis could not help but envy the easy respect Jon commanded. 

After a few tense minutes, the door opened. 

Stannis’ betrothed, Sansa Stark, stood in the doorway. She was more beautiful than he remembered - a thousand times more beautiful - and she looked like a Queen already, clad in a long cloak of white fur. Jon’s enormous direwolf stood by her side, and she was flanked by two knights with Tully arms on their surcoats. 

“My Uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, sent fresh fighters from the riverlands to help your battle. We got here as quickly as we could, and my men joined the fighting at Eastwatch,” Sansa said. From her tone, it was no more noteworthy than a stroll in a garden. She went to Jon and kissed his cheek. “Hello, Jon. I missed you.” Her voice was soft and sweet, and Stannis swallowed thickly at the sound of it.

_She will be my wife. My Queen._

Jon stepped forward, and embraced his sister. Sansa leaned on him for a moment, and neither seemed inclined to separate, though eventually they did. 

Sansa’s eyes met Stannis’ own. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice clear as a bell and loud enough for everyone in the hall. Stannis saw Littlefinger shift around in the shadows.

“Lady Sansa,” he said hoarsely, unable to stop staring at her.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Sansa said in the same clear voice, “you have defeated the enemy.” She locked eyes with Littlefinger for a moment, then looked away. She looked around the room, her gaze watchful. “I have been told that but for the Queen’s heroism and your leadership in these last hard months, all would have been lost. Your battle plans meant the difference between life and death for us all.” 

Several of the watching lords dropped their gaze, and there were more than a few shamed looks.

 _The woman is no fool. She has done more to quell dissent with a few words than I have in all my months here._ Stannis felt a breath of doubt. _Obviously, she knows I needed the support. Does she seek to be free of her betrothal? I have not secured the south -- far from it. The forces I have are weakened. The Lannister armies in the south are fresh._

Sansa looked to Tyrion. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said gently. Her eyes flickered to Jon’s face, then she looked back to Tyrion. “I hear tell that Daenerys was very brave.”

Tyrion turned away, and Stannis was startled to see tears in his eyes. “She was the last hope for a better realm,” he said. “And now she is gone. She had no heir. Everything that she built, everything that she could have been, died with her.“

Sansa shifted, and her eyes went to Jon. The wolf at her side tilted its head. 

Jon was silent for a long moment. Then he looked around the room. “We have an opportunity here. We can leave this room unified, and work together to rebuild the realm. Or we can quarrel, and give Westeros only more strife. I do not want to see the kingdoms divided.” He looked to Sansa, and there seemed to be a moment of silent communication between them. Sansa nodded. Jon turned to Stannis. “Your Grace, you have the strongest claim to the southron kingdoms.”

Stannis opened his mouth to note that he had the only valid claim. Sansa shot him a look, and he thought better of it. 

“Moons ago, we made a pact, an agreement that would lead to our kingdoms joining in time. I stand by that agreement, as does my sister, who has been promised to you as Queen.” Jon looked to to Sansa and Yara, to the Dornish and Reach lords, and then to Baelish. “Together, you represent the riverlands, the Iron Islands, Dorne, Highgarden, and the Vale. King Stannis can speak for the stormlands. I represent the north. Together we can decide on the future: war, or a path to peace. I ask us all to recognize Stannis Baratheon as the rightful king.” 

“And what of Cersei Lannister in King’s Landing?” Baelish asked. His mouth was twisted. “She still holds the Iron Throne.”

Many started to whisper at that. It seemed that a fair few of the men present thought Baelish had raised a valid question.

“Hasn’t there been enough war for you all?” Sansa asked, her voice ringing out and silencing everyone in the hall. “Have not enough lives been lost?” She looked at Baelish. “We have known enough _chaos_ to last a lifetime. It must end. We need peace.”

Stannis nodded at her. “Lady Sansa is right. My kingdom has been bleeding for years. This cannot go on.” He took a deep breath while he waited for everyone to look at him and give him their full attention. “You will all swear fealty to me and acknowledge me as your king, and I will pledge to rebuild this realm and heal its wounds.” 

Tyrion turned. “You steal my wife, and you steal my family’s claim to the throne, and expect me to kiss your boots?” Tyrion asked, staring up at Stannis with a sneer. “Have you forgotten that it was I who defended King’s Landing against you in the Battle of the Blackwater?”

“I have _not_ forgotten,” Stannis hissed, “nor have I forgotten the lives you took with your wildfire trick.” _Matthos._ “But you were not the reason for my retreat. I would have taken the city if your father hadn’t arrived with his armies at the last moment.” Sansa frowned, and Stannis forced himself to soften his tone. “You defended the city well, in service to you kin and all the folk there. There is honour in that.”

Tyrion looked away, his face bitter. 

“Tyrion,” Jon’s voice was soft. “Daenerys would not have wanted this. I only had a short time to know her, but … she wanted a better realm. A better world. You can help make that world a reality. Lend your support, and your counsel, to King Stannis.” 

“If you bend the knee, I am willing to support your claim to Casterly Rock” Stannis said to Tyrion, who was still not looking at him. “It is yours by rights, as the trueborn son of Tywin Lannister.” He looked to Yara. “And I will support your claim to the Iron Islands, as your brother has ceded his claim to you.” He disliked the idea of a woman ruling, but Yara was an able leader of men, Stannis had seen that with his own eyes. He would have to keep a close eye on her to make sure she did not attempt to rebel, but if ruling the Iron Islands would appease her, Stannis would give them to her.

After a moment, Yara nodded curtly. 

They all looked to Tyrion. The room was silent. There was a long pause. Then the Imp shifted his weight. Stannis drew breath sharply, as he realized what was happening.

Tyrion knelt, cleared his throat, and looked at Stannis with a sour expression. “Your Grace,” he began, “ I, Tyrion of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, acknowledge you, Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, as King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Southron Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I pledge my fealty and my loyalty to you.”

Stannis took his oath, and helped the Imp - no, Lord Lannister - to his feet.

“Lady Greyjoy?”

“Fine,” Yara knelt - rather like a man would kneel - and swore fealty to him, somehow managing to sound bored as she did. She barely waited for his signal before getting up again.

The Lords from Dorne and the Reach made personal fealty, as neither were in authority in their kingdoms. Stannis knew that he would have to resolve those questions once Cersei was dealt with. Petyr Baelish also took the knee as the Lord Protector of young Robert Arryn, and as Lord of Harrenhal in his own right. Stannis might have objected to that as the title had been conferred by the Pretender Joffrey, but the man had proven his value more than once, and it would be churlish to stand on legalities at this moment. The matter could stand.

“I can’t wait to sail away from this miserable freezing shithole,” Yara said. “So, when is the wedding?”

Stannis blinked. 

“That is the last step to secure your rule,” Tyrion said. His face was sad, but resigned. “Unless the Starks intend to hold to the letter of the betrothal. Which is, of course, their right. But we are all pledged to support this rule now, and securing the alliance … and the succession … is in all our best interests. ” 

Jon looked to Sansa.

“Yes,” she said. There was no quaver in her voice, no sign of hesitation. Sansa Stark was a noblewoman, well versed in duty. “With my brother’s consent, after what has been agreed here, the wedding should not wait on the defeat of the Pretender Cersei in the south.”

Clegane jerked away from the wall he had been leaning against and stomped out of the hall. Sansa’s gaze flickered to him, and then away. She looked to Stannis. 

“We shall wed as soon as can be arranged,” he said. “And then we shall sail for Dragonstone and begin to put this realm to rights. I pledge that, as your king.”

“King Stannis,” Jon said, and dozens of voices echoed him. “ _King Stannis. King Stannis. King Stannis._ ”

It was not the cheers that always greeted Robert, nor were the words spoken with the veneration that Daenerys had received. But the acclaims built until the rough ceiling rang with them. Some who spoke were of the highest birth, but there were many from humbler backgrounds, and all were rough-dressed and worn from fighting and hardship. 

Stannis felt tears sting his eyes. _My people. I will not fail you._

Slowly, most everyone filtered from the hall, returning to their duties. It felt much emptier once Stannis, Jon, and Sansa were alone. Baelish stayed, too. 

“Your Grace,” Littlefinger said, breaking the deafening silence, “Would it not be wise to delay the wedding, to be held in White Harbour or even in King’s Landing when it is secured? Surely you need to arrange a proper wedding, with gowns, feasting, music?” He spread his hands. “I defer to King Jon on the arrangements, of course, but as Sansa’s uncle by marriage, I would be happy to assist with the cost of such preparations. It is the least I could do.” His tone seemed respectful, and Stannis could not see jealousy in the man’s eyes. There was always just that scheming, infuriating smirk.

A wedding. Stannis felt as if his stomach had flipped over, and it was all he could do not to grimace.

He had not expected this to happen. He had not expected to survive the battle, nor had he expected to wed Sansa in the unlikely event that he _did_ survive it. He had expected to end up between Drogon’s teeth. 

He definitely had not expected Daenerys to die.

Ever since the battle he had just been placing one foot in front of the other, trying not to stop for long enough to think about the enormous challenge in front of him. He had protected his realm, but the wars of the past years had left the realm in pieces. Broken, bleeding pieces that he would have to fit together, heal and mend. And he needed a queen by his side. 

“It should happen sooner rather than later, but it need not happen here at the Wall,” he answered at length, looking at Sansa’s eyes rather than Littlefinger’s face and searching them for a reaction.

She betrayed nothing.

It would have been appropriate for a royal wedding to take place in the Great Sept of Baelor, but as Cersei had burnt it to the ground, he did not think that it truly mattered where they were wed.

He would let Sansa choose. “We could wed at Winterfell perhaps? Or White Harbour?”

Sansa looked at Jon and then back at Stannis. “Perhaps it _need_ not happen here, Your Grace,” she said slowly, “but a wedding in a larger center would always have to be an extravagant, expensive event. I’m sure Petyr’s coin could be put to better use.” She glanced at Baelish for a moment. The man raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “Even a wedding in Winterfell would mean time spent travelling overland. Time we can ill afford.” Sansa paused and gave Stannis a searching look. “White Harbour might work as it would allow the northern lords who have such an important stake in our match to easily attend the wedding, and I’m sure the Manderlys would be generous hosts, but I think it would be much more _practical_ to have the wedding here. That way most of the lords from across the realm, who have fought with you and offered you their support, could attend.”

The crown could ill afford an expensive wedding, Stannis knew. Even if Littlefinger and the Arryns were willing to help with the cost, there would still be burdens, and he was in terrible debt. It surprised him that Sansa would be sensible enough to think of the cost and the time constraints. She was also right to point out that it would be wise to invite the lords whose loyalty the betrothal had bought. “Here, then,” he agreed. 

It seemed very strange to him that Sansa should be so sensible about the matter. Did she not dread his presence in her bed? Would it not then have made more sense to delay the wedding for as long as possible? But he did not feel he could ask what motivated her. 

There was an awkward silence.

“How was the journey, Sansa?” Jon asked after what seemed like a torturously long time.

“The weather was terrible for the most part as we sailed north,” Sansa said, clearly relieved that Jon had spoken, “that’s why we made such poor time. But for the past few days it was much more tolerable. The trip from Eastwatch was nothing.”

“I hope you kept warm,” Jon said, going towards Sansa and touching her shoulders solicitously.

Stannis felt an absurd pang of jealousy when Sansa smiled at her brother and nodded. 

A sly smile crossed Littlefinger’s lips.

“I have much to do,” Stannis said, addressing the room at large. He wanted to escape Sansa’s presence and the stomach churning sensations it brought. “I trust you will help Lady Sansa and her men find suitable accommodations,” he added, directing his words at Jon.

Jon looked away from Sansa in order to nod at him, but only for a moment. “Of course.”

“My lady,” Stannis muttered, inclining his head as courteously as he could remember to do it, and then turning to walk from the hall as quickly as he could without appearing undignified.


	32. The Queen of Love and Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short one, but we are moving toward the wedding!

Stannis was used to getting up very early, but today he got up even earlier than usual. He would be wedding Sansa Stark on the morrow, and he wanted to make sure every detail had been seen to before the ceremony took place.

As he was still a bit bleary-eyed when he left his chambers, and as he had certainly not been expecting Jon to be standing right outside his door, he was so surprised that he let out a startled yelp and immediately drew his sword.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Your Grace,” Jon said, holding his hands up to show that he was unarmed.

Stannis’ heart was racing, and he was breathing as if he had just run up a flight of stairs. “You should not lurk about in corridors like this, damn you,” he said as he put his sword away. He would have expected such behaviour from Lord Baelish, but not of _Jon._

Jon frowned. “I wanted a private word before the ceremony tomorrow.”

“What is it?” Stannis hoped it wouldn’t take very long; he had a lot of things to do.

“I wanted to remind you of the promise I made to you.”

Stannis started to grind his teeth. “What promise?”

Jon raised an eyebrow, and his mouth was set in a hard line. “The promise I made to take your head if you mistreat Sansa or any of her children.”

There was a tense, drawn out silence.

“And? Was there anything else?” Stannis eventually bit out.

“Sansa is the reason you are alive. You would do well to remember that, and treat her accordingly. She deserves a man who will cherish her. Not a man who simply endeavours not to mistreat her.”

Stannis blinked at that. A vision of what it might be like to cherish Sansa drifted to the forefront of his mind. He could see himself holding her close to his breast, his hands buried in her hair.

His stomach flipped over and his cheeks started to burn.

_She won’t want that from me, and I don’t deserve it._

“You have my word,” Stannis said, trying to keep his discomfort out of his voice, “I will treat her well.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, but eventually Jon nodded.

“Good luck, Your Grace.”

Stannis watched Jon walk away, feeling his fingernails dig into his palms. 

_Good luck indeed, Winter King._

***

After a grueling morning of wedding preparations, Stannis was relieved to be reunited with his Hand in the common hall for mid-day meal. They sat down to a hearty meal of salted fish delivered from Eastwatch, and for a while they were silent as they ate.

Sansa and her maid were absent from the hall, making Yara the only woman among a great crowd of men. She was sitting nearby, laughing with some of her lackeys. Stannis ignored her.

“I’ve been hearing tales of you and your betrothed,” Davos said once they had devoured a whole codfish between them.

Stannis tensed up. “What tales?”

“Some of the men say the Lady Sansa is enamoured of you, and that’s why she wants to wed you right here at the Wall. Some say it is the other way around.” Davos’ eyes were twinkling merrily.

Stannis felt his face grow warm and fumbled for his cup of water, drinking deeply in an attempt to mask his discomfort. Once he had swallowed the water he glared at Davos. “Foolish gossip.”

Davos raised an eyebrow. “You have not earned her affections, then?”

Stannis clenched his jaw and wondered what - if anything - he should say. 

“You know I haven’t,” he eventually ground out. “We’ve barely spoken.”

Davos was just nodding unhelpfully.

“She wanted the wedding to take place here at the Wall, and that indicates that she is ready and willing to wed me, but I can’t see how that can be,” Stannis said, still feeling rather foolish, but needing to discuss the matter nonetheless.

“Ah, because of what she wrote in that letter,” Davos said, now seeming to understand what Stannis was trying to say. “Surely you have explained that you do not intend to mistreat her?”

Stannis thought for a moment of the letter he had written, wherein he had explained his intentions to Sansa, and wondered if she had received it. He knew his squire had sent it, but he was not sure whether it had been delivered.

“I’m sure she’s aware of that. She’s no fool,” Stannis bit out, giving Davos an offended look.

“Well, words are wind, Your Grace. You’d do well to treat her gently and with kindness on your wedding night. I would also advise that you should not have a bedding ceremony. Some of the men might take… liberties.”

Stannis had never intended to allow for the absurd tradition to take place, so he didn’t comment on that part of Davos’ suggestion. “How should I be kind? I doubt she will look upon it as a particularly kind procedure,” Stannis said, frowning at Davos.

Davos reddened slightly and looked down at his hands. “You’ll need to be patient, and - er - maybe you could try doing a bit of kissing,” he said after a bit of hemming and hawing.

“It’s simple,” an amused voice said, speaking from behind Stannis. He turned to see Yara smirking at him. “Just lick her cunt until she’s so wet that it doesn’t matter how inept you undoubtedly are with your cock, and then let her ride you like a horse.” She slapped his shoulder, winked, and swaggered off.

Stannis sat still and stared after her, pressing his lips together very tightly. He glanced at Davos once he regained the ability to move, and saw that his friend appeared to be trying very hard not to laugh.

“Impudent fishwife,” Stannis muttered, scowling at Davos and willing him to stop looking so amused. The more he thought about the words Yara had spoken, the more his face seemed to warm.

Stannis had heard things that were just as crass before, but the men whose boasts he had been forced to listen to had usually never spoken much of _licking cunts._ Robert tended to talk mainly of how eager wenches were to suck his cock and spread their legs for him, and how they would walk bow-legged for days after he got done with them. Stannis _had_ heard of men that would give ladies the ‘Lord’s Kiss’, but not very often, and it had usually been very unclear to him why it was done. It seemed just as deviant to him as having a woman take a man’s cock in her mouth, and very unlikely to result in an heir. Stannis would never admit it, but what Yara had said had done a fair bit to clear up the purpose of the Lord’s Kiss to him. If it helped make a woman wet, it would certainly serve to make any coupling that followed easier.

Lying with Selyse had always been awkward and unpleasant when she had been dry as a bone. That had happened but rarely once they had grown used to one another, but Stannis could still remember.

Melisandre’s cunt had been very wet, and hotter than wildfire when she had seduced him...

Stannis did not allow his thoughts to stray in the direction of that dishonourable evening in the Chamber of the Painted Table, nor did he allow himself to imagine what it would be like to have Sansa, wet from having her cunt licked, ride him like a prized destrier. Such thoughts would only serve to embarrass him further.

“Vulgar as it was, Your Grace, her advice was sound,” Davos said, his tone apologetic and his lips still twitching. “You would have to be very incompetent indeed to hurt a lady if you did as Yara suggested. Though it would perhaps shock Lady Sansa if you attempted such things on your first night together.”

Stannis had to work very hard to keep his eyes from widening as he stared at his Hand. Davos _agreed_ with Yara?

_Did he do such things with his wife?_

“I will not discuss this,” Stannis bit out, feeling his cheeks burn.

Davos nodded and took a gulp of his ale.

Stannis pushed the discomfiting thoughts Yara’s words had inspired to a dark corner of his mind, and focused on what he needed to do in the afternoon. There were several men he needed to speak to, and accounts he needed to settle.

Stannis managed not to think of Lady Sansa very much for the rest of the day, though it took increasingly more effort as the hours passed by.

Once he was alone in his bed, however, it became impossible to push the thoughts away. Memories of what it had felt like to fuck Melisandre became warped and twisted as he imagined Sansa in her place, wet, willing, and eager for his cock. It was shameful to think such things about his betrothed. It would have been shameful to think such thoughts of _any_ young lady, but Stannis was particularly ashamed of thinking about Sansa in this way on the very eve of their wedding day. She would never want him to fuck her like he had fucked Melisandre. She would only want him to lie with him in order to produce heirs, not to slake his lust.

Guilt and shame made his insides writhe as his hand gained a will of its own, grasping his cock and pulling ruthlessly on it. Deviant images filled his mind: Sansa’s pale, naked body moving on top of him, her perfect teats rising and falling in front of his eyes -- begging to be touched.

He spent his seed with a muffled grunt, the pleasure of it leaving his muscles weak and his heart racing. He was not able to enjoy the pleasure of his release for very long, however, as his shame intensified while he used his furs and the bedclothes to wipe himself off.

This was not like him. He had never been a man who allowed himself to be governed by his base urges. He had told himself over and over again that what happened with Melisandre had been a misstep, and that she had no doubt used some sort of witchcraft to make him take leave of his senses and rut with her like an animal. That misstep aside, he had always tried to remain firmly in control of himself. He had always tried to keep from stroking himself wantonly to inappropriate thoughts of beautiful women, and he had certainly never lain with a whore. He would touch himself only to make certain that everything still functioned as it ought, and that he was still capable of spilling his seed. He usually did not think of any particular woman, though sometimes he needed to think of the way it felt to climax in order to finish himself off.

Ever since he had seen Sansa in that warm pool in Winterfell he had occasionally suffered flashes of that memory at inappropriate moments, true, but he had always been quick to suppress the recollection.

Tonight he had crossed a line he had not crossed since he had been a callow youth.

 _It was all Yara’s fault,_ he thought to himself, tossing and turning in his bed, unable to get comfortable due to the way his insides were churning with shame and anger. _I ought to have her punished for speaking out of turn._ Not that he could do such a thing to one of his foremost vassals.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, and once he managed it, he was plagued by dreams of red hair, pale skin, and a sweet voice sighing his name.


	33. The Path to Peace

Sansa sent her maid away as soon as she was ready. Laoren curtseyed more deeply than she usually did before she left.

Once Sansa was alone, she walked to the window and looked out at the dreary winter sky. She could see the Wall that stretched from east to west, filling the horizon with its overwhelming presence. The views were not beautiful here at Castle Black. Impressive perhaps, but not beautiful. Not like they had been in her mother’s childhood home.

She might easily have remained at Riverrun. Sansa had been treated with genuine warmth by her uncle’s men, and as several of them had known her mother when she had been a girl, she had been told many stories of Catelyn, Lysa, Petyr and Edmure that she had never heard before. She had even been given her mother’s old chambers to sleep in, and an old servant woman had found a chest of little objects that had once belonged to the Tully sisters: thimbles, ribbons, perfume bottles, and the like.

It had been like finding her father’s little treasures in the lord’s chamber in Winterfell, and it had been almost as if Sansa had been given a little piece of her mother back.

But Sansa hadn’t just felt welcome in Riverrun; she had felt _enchanted._ The girl she had been before Lady died - before everything went wrong - had seemed to stir within her: confident, joyful and full of hope. Sometimes Sansa had walked among the redwoods and the frozen grass in the godswood, closed her eyes, and pretended… pretended that instead of going to King’s Landing she had gone to Riverrun instead. She had imagined that she was still young and full of childish fancies, that she had never discovered that life was not a song, and that the south had actually been everything she had hoped it would be.

A very large part of Sansa had wanted to stay.

But she had known how dire things were at the Wall. Even a few men could make the difference. Thus Sansa had made the hard choice instead of the easy one. She had written to Edmure and sought his approval to take a small army from the riverlands to the Wall. He had given it freely.

Mustering even a small army was hard work, but Sansa had Edmure’s letter, and she had her wits and her powers of persuasion. The men in the riverlands were less stubborn than the men in the north; they were no longer under Walder Frey’s thumb due to Arya, and they were grateful to the Starks for saving and sheltering Edmure. But Sansa had not been confident in any of the lords she had managed to muster, and in the end she had felt compelled to lead her force to the Wall herself. 

The journey to the Wall had not been easy. Sansa and her her men had taken ships at Saltpans. Sailing made Sansa feel ill, and the weather had been abhorrent. Her men had fought the wights well at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and she had been proud of them. 

Sansa had been very surprised to receive a letter from Stannis during her short stay at Eastwatch. She had been even more surprised to read the words her betrothed had written. If she had not been able to recognise his hand from his previous letters, she might have thought someone else had written it.

_I might hope that you would remember me, at least, as a man who did his best for the realm._

She had known when she had read those words that Stannis had not expected to live through the battle he had been facing. His request had made her heart feel heavy.

Learning that Stannis had lived and Daenerys had perished had not made it feel any lighter.

Her heart still seemed like a rock inside her breast. She moved away from the window and began to pace. The journey that lay ahead of her now was much shorter than the journey to the Wall, and she comforted herself with the thought that she would be unlikely to get seasick on her way down from the King’s Tower. Still, even if it would be short and free of illness, Sansa was frightened.

 _I didn’t expect the wedding to happen so soon. I thought I had months, or even years._ Instead it would occur today. She knew it was the best way to secure the peace, but still… _Stannis might have died in the fighting here at the Wall, or in the coming battles to take the south. I could have gone home to Winterfell and been with Bran. Safe._

_Had Daenerys lived, I could have been free._

A knock on the door distracted her. Was it time already?

Jon entered, looking serious and a little sad. His hair was long, but neatly combed. His beard was clean. He gazed at her for a long silent moment. She smoothed the skirt of her gown.

“You look beautiful.” Jon swallowed, and aimed his eyes at the floor as he spoke.

There had been no time to make a special dress for her wedding, and even if there had been, there were no materials or seamstresses here. Instead she had clad herself in one of the best dresses she had brought from Riverrun. It was dove grey velvet, with a cinched waist, a full skirt, and the softest white rabbit fur trim imaginable. She had embroidered the direwolf pattern that adorned the bodice herself. One of the smiths had modified a circlet she owned into a crown. The man had used metal and diamonds taken from some of Daenerys’ jewellery. Sansa was glad to have some memory of the Dragon Queen to carry with her. 

The crown would be placed on her head near the end of the ceremony. _Queen._

Sansa gave Jon a faint smile. “Thank you.”

There was another long silence.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jon asked, looking at her with concern in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you prefer to wait until Bran could be present?”

“I’m sure, Jon,” Sansa said, looking down at her clasped hands. “We’ve been over this. It is best to seal the union, and the alliance, as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, but -”

“I will wed King Stannis and then I will sail with him to Dragonstone. He will take King’s Landing. I will be his queen. The Southron Kingdoms will have strong ties to the north just like all the northern lords wanted, our firstborn son will unite the Seven Kingdoms, and I will have kept my word. There will be peace.”

_I wish that did not sound like I am trying to convince myself._

“I know all that,” Jon said, looking forlorn. “And I know he’s a good man.”

Sansa could tell that there was something on his mind. She wasn’t really sure she wanted to hear it, but she felt she owed it to Jon to hear his concerns.

“But… ?” she said, tucking her fears into a corner of her mind and squaring her shoulders.

Jon gave her a solemn look. “But I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I already told you,” Sansa said, looking away from him. “You can’t protect me. No one can.”

“Stannis -”

“Stannis won’t hurt me.”

Jon frowned at her. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, frustration welling up inside her, “but there’s nothing you can say. It’s done.”

“It’s not done. Not yet,” Jon whispered, walking up to her and placing one hand on each of her shoulders, passion and deep regard reflected in his eyes. “I want you safe, Sansa. I know Stannis is an honourable man and that he would never intentionally harm you, but I don’t just want you safe. I want you _happy._ ”

Sansa bit her lip, and she noticed that Jon looked briefly at her mouth as she did.

“Mother and Father were not happy at first,” Sansa pointed out.

“Stannis isn’t like Father,” Jon said, reaching up to tuck a lock of long red hair behind one of her ears.

 _No he isn’t,_ Sansa thought, looking into Jon’s eyes. _No one is. Except perhaps you._

“You’ll never escape him if you go through with this,” Jon said, his tone neither a warning nor a threat. It was a statement of fact. “He won’t ever let you go.”

“How do you know?” Sansa asked, even though she knew the answer. Stannis was not the sort of man who relinquished what he considered his.

“Because I -” Jon stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Because I just do.”

“Well, I’m going to go through with it all the same,” Sansa said, squaring her shoulders. “An alliance with Stannis is the best path to peace. Peace will bring me happiness.”

Jon squeezed her shoulders for a moment. Then, with a nod, he let go of her and took a step back. 

He still looked forlorn, however, and after a moment of silence he ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Does it really have to happen quite so quickly? Are you _sure_ you’re ready?”

“I’m ready,” she said, meeting Jon’s eyes steadily even though her stomach lurched as she said the words.

Aside from barely having spoken to Stannis since she had arrived at the Wall, she was still very nervous about the idea of lying with a man. She knew that it was meant to be pleasant, or at least not the violent, horrible ordeal Ramsay had always made it, but the part of her that trembled at the thought of being bedded was not so easily convinced.

The thought of being at a man’s mercy in the bedchamber left her feeling weak and ill, and no matter how many times she told herself that Stannis would not hurt her, and no matter how often she told herself that lying with a man was a necessary part of conceiving children, her stomach just kept on churning regardless.

How could she know if she could trust Stannis’ word?

“If you’re truly ready, you’re better off than I am,” Jon said quietly, interrupting Sansa’s thoughts.

Confused, Sansa blinked at him. “But you’re not about to wed anyone,” she said, wondering if she had missed something, “are you?”

“I - no, definitely not. I just meant… you were raised to be the lady of a great keep. You’ve been in King’s Landing before. You’re ready to be a queen. I was never raised to be a king. I never thought I’d be where I am…” Jon trailed off, running his hand through his hair again.

“You’re doing fine,” Sansa said, a little amused to see Jon fretting about this. Everyone agreed that Jon was like a hero from a song -- like the kings of old.

“I’m trying,” Jon sighed, “but I just don’t feel like I should be King now the war is over.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Why not?”

Jon started to pace around. “When the northern lords made me King in the North, I accepted because I knew the North needed a strong leader against the white walkers, someone who could lead armies. I didn’t know for sure if Bran was still alive, out there north of the Wall. And I didn’t know about - about my parents.” There was a short pause, and a significant look passed between them. “They made me their king because they thought I was Ned Stark’s last living son, and… I just… I feel like an imposter most of the time.”

Sansa watched as Jon sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands.

It hadn’t occurred to Sansa that Jon might feel this way. She remembered how awkward he had felt about taking the lord’s chamber at Winterfell when he felt that it belonged to her, so perhaps this shouldn’t surprise her, but Jon just seemed like such a natural leader. His men loved him, and fought for him because they believed in him. He was exactly the sort of person who _should_ be a king. The sort of person who would help Bran rebuild the north to be what their father had tried to make it.

She walked over to Jon’s chair and touched his shoulder. He looked up at her with large, worried eyes, searching her face.

“You’re just as much a Stark as I am,” Sansa said, “and you’re what the north _needs._ ”

Jon ducked his face. When he looked back up his cheeks were tinged faintly pink.

“I don’t know what I’m doing half the time,” he mumbled.

Sansa gave him a small smile. “Do you think King Robert knew what he was doing half the time?”

Jon laughed, and his back seemed to straighten a bit.

“That’s what advisors are for,” Sansa added. “You don’t have to know how to do everything yourself.”

Jon nodded, looking a lot less worried, and as if her words had actually made a difference. Seeing it filled her heart with warmth.

“You don’t think I’m an impostor?” Jon asked, a crooked smile on his lips.

Sansa pretended to consider the question, tilting her head thoughtfully to the side and bringing a hand to her chin. “Well, it’s certainly getting hard to tell who you are underneath all that hair and that beard…”

Jon laughed, and after a moment Sansa dropped her thoughtful pretense and laughed, too.

“Thank you,” Jon said. “Thank you, Sansa.” He coughed. “I don’t know if Stannis will be the king we hope for, but I know one thing. You will be a wonderful queen.” 

She smiled, but felt her face quiver. “I hope so. I’m afraid-,” she swallowed the words. There was no point dwelling on the worst. “I will try to be a good queen.”

Jon hesitated. “Sansa, while Dany was here … before we lost her … she and I talked about many things. I always wanted to know more about my mother -- who she was. What that side of my heritage was. Obviously, it was more complicated than I thought, but with Dany … I felt like I came to know that part of my history. And Dany -- she said it was like having another brother. A home and a family. She was happy, in her last days.”

“I’m glad,” Sansa said, and she truly was.

Jon seemed to be struggling. “We also talked about Lyanna. My mother. And what happened to her. Dany told me of what you feared when you went to meet with her. How much my mother’s fate weighed on you.”

Sansa felt herself drawing a sharp breath. “Must we talk about this now?”

“Sansa, I think so. The story in the north has always been that she was abducted and raped. We both heard it. Maybe it was true. But Dany ... she was told that Lyanna and Rhaegar loved each other. Madly, foolishly, destructively … but that she chose him. I saw Uncle Benjen after the battle when the dragons first arrived and he took great pains to tell me the same thing. Maybe we can trust those accounts, and maybe we can never know what the truth was. But I remember how father treated me growing up … and I hope that maybe I am not the product of something evil. That my mother’s fate was not as cruel as we always believed.” His eyes were sad. “I just … I didn’t want that image hanging over you today.” 

Sansa took a breath, and nodded. She was not sure how to feel about this, but a little of the tightness in her chest eased. Daenerys had been a woman of compassion, if not always of wisdom. Perhaps her brother had been less evil than Sansa had thought. She was not willing to commit to the idea, but the possibility held the shreds of hope. Especially if Uncle Benjen had confirmed the story. He could have heard it from Father. Father could have heard it from Lyanna’s own lips. It could be true. 

“Thank you, Jon,” she said. “I know this wasn’t easy for you. And I am sorry about Daenerys.”

“She was like another sister,” he said, blinking back tears. “I lost her, I’ve lost Arya, and now I am going to lose you, too.”

“You aren’t losing me,” Sansa said. “I’m just getting married. And if Arya is in King’s Landing, I will find her. I swear it. And if I can, I’ll send her home to you.”

He didn’t say a word, just gathered her into his arms and crushed her to his chest. She nearly couldn’t breathe, but she didn’t care. She held him back just as tightly, and breathed into his neck, trying to absorb the smell of him … the smell of the north. 

_I want to stay like this forever._

“We should get going,” Sansa said, sooner than she would have liked.

Jon nodded and gave her his arm. He led her to the hall where her wedding was to take place in silence, but it was a comfortable, thoughtful silence rather than an awkward one.

The Shieldhall was of dark stone, and there were shields all over the walls. More shields than Sansa could count. This was where knights who took the black put their colourful shields before they accepted the plain black shields they would carry at the Wall. Most of the shields in the hall looked old, the colours faded with age, dust covering the wooden surfaces. There was a raised platform at the other end of the room where a septon stood waiting. Stannis had not arrived yet.

She turned, on Jon’s arm, to come face to face with Sandor Clegane. 

“Little bird -- can I have a few words?” Sandor said.

“Do you wish to speak to him?” Jon asked, looking at Sansa.

Sansa nodded, feeling her heartbeat quicken. “I would hear what he has to say.”

“I’ll be right over here, Sansa,” Jon said, stepping to the side to give Sandor and Sansa a small measure of privacy. 

“What is it?” Sansa asked, clasping her hands in front of her and looking up at Sandor’s scarred face. He had collected a few more scars at the Wall by the look of things, and there was a nasty cut on his cheek that had yet to heal properly.

“Your brother wants me to stay here at the Wall,” Sandor muttered. “Take the black.”

Sansa blinked at him, feeling surprised. “Really?”

“He reckons he’ll make me First Ranger.”

Sansa smiled at him, the melancholy feeling she associated with Sandor flooding her chest. “Are you - are you going to accept?”

Sandor grunted and shrugged, her own sadness reflected in his eyes. 

“It’s a great honour,” Sansa said, speaking tentatively.

“If I do, just… just tell me you’re not going to let your guard down around Littlefinger,” Sandor said, furrowing his brow, causing his scarred flesh to twist up. “I’ve known him long enough to know that he’s got some fucking scheme. And you can be sure it won’t be good for anyone but him.”

“I will.”

“And … watch over your husband.”

Sansa blinked in surprise. 

“Littlefinger may not mean harm to you, although I’d not wager on it, but he means no good to the King. Watch his back. There’s no one else to do it.”

Sansa stared at him in surprise. Her mind was suddenly spinning fast, making connections that had eluded her since the moment Sandor had appeared at the gates of Winterfell with a comatose man on a sleigh. _He walked into the fire for Stannis._ She had wondered why. _Sandor is a brave man, but … is there more to it than that?_

Sandor stepped aside. There wasn’t time for further conversation. More and more men had started to pour into the feast hall, and everyone had to sit down so that the standing room in the hall wouldn’t become overcrowded.

It would be time soon.

 _All will be well,_ Sansa thought to herself, trying to soothe her nerves. _This marriage will not be like the others. Stannis will have no reason to mistreat me. He might even learn to value me. My behaviour will be without fault. I will be the perfect wife._

_Just like Mother._

A sharp pang of grief pierced her heart at the thought of her mother, and her grief for Father, Robb and Rickon followed, making her want to leave the crowded hall. She looked at Jon and wished she was back in her father’s chamber in Winterfell. She wished for Bran. She wished for Arya, too.

It was a strange and saddening thought that soon she would be in the south once more. She might never see Winterfell again. If she met Bran, or Jon, perhaps it would only be fleeting. And Arya… she could only pray that she would find her sister. _My family._

 _Gods, I will miss them,_ she thought, wringing her hands. It would be so much harder to leave the north now that she understood how precious her family was to her. How precious _Winterfell_ was to her. She wasn’t wrapped up in silly, childish fantasies of being Queen, and she knew exactly what she was giving up. She could only hope … It would be good for the realm if she and Stannis were able to have children quickly, but Sansa knew it would also be good for _her._

_I won’t be lonely if I have children of my own to care for._

_A family of my own._

And that thought gave her comfort.


	34. A Royal Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We decided to pick up the pace on our posting schedule as the last three chapters are pretty much ready (other than some edits) and we are in the final stretch for the story! Thanks so much to everyone for your support, you guys are the best. :)

Stannis could not recall feeling quite as tense the last time he stood and waited for a bride. He was in a side chamber next to the Shieldhall of Castle Black, rather than in a sept, but the location didn’t matter to him.

 _This is no different than last time,_ Stannis told himself, glancing at Davos and feeling somewhat reassured by his steadfast presence. _This is a political match that has been forced on both Sansa and me because it was necessary._

Stannis walked to the door of the side chamber. It was half open, and he could watch as more and more people poured into the hall without being observed.

There were northern lords present this time around, instead of lords from the Reach like when he had wed Selyse, but they wore the same smug, satisfied expressions. They were getting what they wanted: a northern queen in the Red Keep.

_After I take the Red Keep._

Stannis felt his palms become clammy as he stared at the entrance Sansa was due to walk through at any moment, and his heart was beating irregularly in his chest. 

He could not stop thinking about the bedding. His wedding with Selyse had been the first time for them both. It had been mortifying, and though Selyse had been remarkably strong and stoic, he remembered the sounds of discomfort she had made, the tears in her eyes, and the _blood._

But Sansa was not a maiden like Selyse had been, and he was no inexperienced youth. Perhaps there would not be so much discomfort for her. There certainly should not be blood.

Stannis shifted from foot to foot in his new boots. He had not broken them in, and the leather was pinching his feet. His doublet was making Stannis equally uncomfortable. Though the velvet was soft and the fit was good, he did not care for the ostentatious scrollwork that adorned it. It was as if Stannis was wearing Renly’s clothes rather than his own, and he didn’t like it. Worst of all was the heavy crown on his head. The metal was digging into his skin, and he did not feel as if he could move his head naturally. He felt as if he turned to look at something too quickly, the damnable thing might fly off.

Lord Manderly had provided the clothing, and there hadn’t been time to get the doublet altered to Stannis’ taste. And since none of the clothing he had brought with him to the Wall was fine enough to do for the occasion, Stannis had simply been forced to wear the absurd thing.

The crown had been a gift from all the northern lords, and Stannis thought it was not the worst looking crown he had ever seen, though it was hastily made. The metal was worked to resemble stag antlers and the branches of weirwood trees. The workmanship was rushed and not of the finest quality, but the metal was the best that had been available. He knew a smaller, matching circlet had been made for Sansa. He would present her with it at the end of the wedding ceremony.

He forgot about his pinched feet and his heavy crown when Sansa appeared in the Shieldhall’s doorway on Jon’s arm.

He nearly forgot to _breathe._

He had thought the dresses she had often worn at Winterfell had been beautiful, but they were nothing to the one she wore now. Stark colours, fine embroidery, a fur trim that looked decadently soft. Her waist seemed positively _tiny,_ and it seemed as if her every comely feature had somehow been enhanced. The white cloak she wore was fine and rich: the same one she had arrived in. Her hair was her crowning glory, however, and Stannis was put in mind of the way Cersei’s golden hair had seemed to shine like the sun when Robert had wed her. Rather than the bright midday sun, Sansa’s hair was like one of the spectacular sunsets he had seen as a child in the stormlands, and he forgot for a moment that he had promised himself that he would not enjoy this.

It was impossible not to enjoy such beauty for at least a heartbeat or two.

Thankfully, he recovered his wits quickly, and clenched his jaw shut to make sure he was not gaping at Sansa like a fool. He closed the door and took a few minutes to collect himself. Davos remained silent, and Stannis was grateful for it. He was not fit for conversation.

At the present moment, Stannis didn’t feel fit for much of anything. His convictions… his _rights_... all of it seemed vague and unimportant.

_I am just a tired old man. I am not worthy of her._

Stannis’ stomach shrank, and he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

_I am worthy. And she has agreed to this of her own free will._

Free will... A wave of nausea passed through him as a vivid memory resurfaced.

_“If you say so. You have earned the title twice, Lady Bolton.”_

_“What did you call me?”_

_“The name of the husband you wed of your own free will.”_

_And then the look in her eyes …_

He felt himself break into a sweat, and he wished now that Davos would say something. Anything. Being alone with his thoughts was… not good.

“I believe it is time, Your Grace.”

Stannis changed his mind. Davos should not have spoken.

There was nothing for it, however. Stannis was forced to steel himself, straighten his back, and ignore his pinched feet. He had a royal wedding to attend.

Stannis and Davos emerged into the packed hall, moving to stand beside the old septon. He smelled faintly of fermented goat’s milk, but looked sober enough.

A hush fell when Jon led Sansa towards Stannis, giving her a small smile and a lingering kiss to her forehead when they reached their destination. She gave him a little smile in return, and Stannis had to repress a fresh pang of absurd jealousy. _They are brother and sister,_ he reminded himself.

_Cersei and Jaime Lannister are brother and sister, too. Twins._

Stannis pushed the thought away.

Sansa’s posture was proud and tall as she faced him, but there was tension in the muscles of her face, neck, and shoulders, and her eyes betrayed a certain amount of trepidation.

She tensed up even more when the septon started the ceremony by instructing Stannis to remove her white cloak and replace it with his own cloak of protection, but turned to present him with her back without a word.

Stannis felt strangely inadequate about giving Sansa his battle-worn cloak as a symbol of his protection. She deserved something rich and fine. Black velvet and cloth-of-gold. But this was what he had. He removed her white cloak without trouble, feeling pleased that his hands weren’t shaking, and quickly fastened his own fur-trimmed cloak in its place. He let his hands rest on her shoulders for a moment when he had finished, wishing that he could do something - anything - to ease her tension.

She turned to face him once he let go, and the septon started to talk.

Stannis kept watching her all through the ceremony, only listening to the septon with one ear to make sure he wouldn’t be caught unawares when he was supposed to do something. Unlike him, she appeared to be paying close attention to everything the septon said, her hands clasped piously in front of her.

When the time came to make their pledges to one another, Stannis’ mouth had gone completely dry. 

They would be required to kiss.

It would only be a perfunctory peck, but the thought of it still made his pulse quicken.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband," Sansa said, her voice clear and steady. She met his eyes, and it did not seem as if she felt any trepidation now. All he could see was steel.

He cleared his throat so that his voice wouldn’t sound like a frog’s croak. "With this kiss I pledge my love," he said, wondering if she would be able to hear his heart pounding, "and take you for my lady, my wife, and my queen."

Stannis took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and held his breath as he pressed his lips to hers, exerting as little pressure as he possibly could. They didn’t close their eyes as they kissed, and it lasted for less time than it would have taken to blink, but it was still enough to make heat race up and down his spine, and his stomach to start jumping like a trout.

He took a hasty step back and several surreptitious deep breaths.

To help calm himself down, he looked towards the gathered people in the Shieldhall rather than at his wife. Jon’s expression so resembled that of a young Ned Stark that Stannis had to blink a few times. Lord Lannister was staring into the middle distance, a melancholy frown touching his lips. Lord Baelish smirked at Stannis. Tormund looked bored and mildly puzzled. And the Hound... the Hound looked ready to murder a horde of white walkers with his bare hands.

Stannis looked at Jon again. The young king met his eyes with a grim expression.

 _I pledged my love,_ he thought as he met the younger man’s eyes, _and I won’t hurt her._

A little later, when the septon gestured for the glittering circlet that matched his own to be brought forth, Stannis understood that it was time to crown Sansa as his queen.

It felt very intimate to put it in place on Sansa’s head. It required him to touch her silken hair for a brief moment while she fixed him with her steely gaze, which made him feel as if the act was almost as intimate as kissing her.

He swallowed thickly when he stepped back to take in the full effect of Sansa Stark, Princess of the North and Queen of the Southron Kingdoms. 

She was crowned, cloaked and pledged to him, but she exuded her own power, and she was _stunning._

_The people will love her. They will not love me, but they will love her._

He pretended to pay attention as the ceremony was concluded, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of the bedding again, wondering if he would be able to get through the ordeal without hurting Sansa. He was forced to pay attention to the present moment when Lord Manderly walked up to him and bowed.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he said, looking even more smug and satisfied than before. “You are the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Stannis grunted, not sure how to respond. He’d sound like a pompous fool if he agreed, and he would no doubt offend the ridiculous man if he disagreed.

“Thank you, Lord Manderly, but I’m the lucky one,” Sansa said with a demure smile; effortlessly courteous.

“Indeed, my queen, it is a fortuitous match, and let us all hope it will be a fruitful one, too.” Manderly winked at Sansa, and she ducked her head shyly.

Lord Baelish was now acting obnoxiously cheerful: the supportive uncle-by-marriage to the tips of his fingertips. Sansa’s lips thinned as she observed him, and Stannis wondered why. The Hound still looked excessively vexed, but Stannis saw a lingering look pass between him and Sansa -- a lingering look that Stannis did not like in the least.

Jon approached and gave Sansa another one of his little smiles. “You said all the right words, little sister,” he said quietly. “It was almost as if you had done this before.”

Stannis bristled and glared at Jon. _Why is he speaking of her past weddings?_

But Sansa did not seem offended. She simply let out a small laugh.

Stannis glanced at Davos, who had been stoic and silent throughout the ceremony, and saw that his Hand looked rather amused, too.

Thankfully, more lords walked up to congratulate them and wish them well, and Sansa’s more serious mood returned.

It was surprisingly easy to converse with the northern lords now that Sansa was beside him. Stannis could hardly believe how these men that had always been prickly and sour when he had spoken to them in the past, were now smiling, laughing and wishing him a long life and luck siring several strong sons with the blood of the north in their veins.

When the tables were laid for the feast, the jolly mood persisted, and Stannis felt almost like he supposed Robert must always have felt, surrounded by men who behaved as if they did not want to escape his company. He and Sansa were promised fine gifts by most all of the present lords, to be delivered to the Red Keep once Stannis took it. The food was as good as the stewards could make it, but it was nothing like what Stannis had eaten at Robert’s wedding.

When the savoury courses had been licked clean off their plates, simple sweetbreads were brought out, and to Sansa’s delight: a large lemon cake, dripping with honey. He tried a piece because it seemed to please his wife that he do so - and because Jon was glaring at him - and had to admit that it was quite good.

A few talented musicians started playing cheerful music as the evening wore on, and some of the men started singing.

Somehow Stannis ended up standing in the middle of the hall with Sansa in front of him. Apparently he was expected to _dance._

 _I’m not supposed to be enjoying this,_ he reminded himself as he felt the warmth of Sansa’s body, seeping through the soft fabric of her gown. He tried to focus on his uncomfortable boots instead, but found that the pain hardly bothered him now.

“Are you not pleased with the feast, Your Grace?” Sansa asked. Stannis would not have minded if she had used his given name as it was unlikely that anyone would hear them talking, but perhaps it was best that she hadn’t. His heart stuttered at the mere _thought_ of hearing his name on her tongue, and he did not know how he would react to the reality of it.

“It’s fine,” he said, trying to focus on placing his feet on the floor rather than on Sansa’s toes.

“You have been scowling for most of the night,” Sansa said, her tone a little admonishing. “I’ve had to explain to all the lords that your face simply rests that way. Lord Manderly was beginning to think that your food was spoiled.”

“I am not here to be pleased,” Stannis said, feeling his face grow warm, “I am here to do my duty.”

“So am I,” Sansa said, gazing up at him with an unreadable look in her eyes, “but everyone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make this feast a joyous occasion. We must play our parts.”

Stannis clenched his jaw and nodded.

They danced in silence for a little while.

“I never had the chance to thank you for your letter,” Sansa said, breaking the silence. “I was glad to receive it.”

 _So it was delivered, then._ He swallowed, recalling the things he had written that he might not have, had he known he would survive.

“It was nothing,” he said, knowing a response was expected.

Sansa gave him a small smile.

“For how much longer do you think we should stay?” he asked her, wanting to change the subject, and wondering whether it would be considered disrespectful if they retired after this dance. He was sure she would care about such things.

“I’m sure they will call for a bedding ceremony at some point,” Sansa said, her voice becoming strained.

“I will not allow a bedding ceremony,” Stannis said at once. “I will not allow any man a chance to take liberties with your person.”

Sansa blinked up at him and furrowed her brow. “It is expected -”

“I do not care. And it would not be just. There are hardly any women here, and too many men.”

She fell silent, but there was relief in her eyes and much of the tension that had been present in her shoulders since he had first seen her enter the Shieldhall seemed to fade away. Her lips curved unexpectedly with amusement.

“You do not believe Yara Greyjoy would manage to put you to bed on her own?”

Stannis’ cheeks started to burn. He did not want to think about Yara after what the wench had said to him the night before. And he could not even imagine what she might do in a bedding. He might be protecting himself as much as his bride by avoiding the tradition.

They danced quietly for a little while and Stannis recovered from his embarrassment. Eventually Sansa seemed to remember that he had asked her a question that she had yet to answer properly.

“We should not retire until the men have had a chance to drink a little more ale,” she said, pursing her lips thoughtfully, “they will be pleased to let us do anything we wish at that point.”

Stannis nodded.

Stannis and Sansa had only just returned to their seats when Jon stood up and asked Sansa for a dance. She agreed, and Stannis felt a touch irritated that neither Stark had thought to consult him. He could not really have denied Jon the dance - he was her brother and a king in his own right, after all - but it still felt like a slight.

“You should try to smile, Your Grace,” a familiar voice said. “You look as if you’re at your funeral, not your wedding.”

Stannis looked around to find Tyrion Lannister clambering into the seat Jon had left free. The dwarf helped himself to some of Jon’s ale.

“What do you want, Lord Lannister?” Stannis did not really want to speak to the irritating little man.

“Just a few words,” Tyrion said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you didn’t come to me, actually.”

Stannis stared at the dwarf.

“Well, no. I’m not actually surprised.” Tyrion gave a humourless laugh. “But you do realise I’m the only living man in the realm who knows what this is like, don’t you?”

“What _what_ is like?” Stannis bit out. He knew what Tyrion meant, but he was hoping his tone would convince Tyrion to stop talking.

“Wedding Sansa,” Tyrion said, sipping more of Jon’s ale.

Stannis ground his teeth together and tried to think of a non lethal way to get rid of Tyrion. A part of him was curious, however, so he kept silent.

“My father gave me no choice,” Tyrion muttered. “I was to wed and bed Sansa Stark, and put a Lannister heir in her belly. A Lannister heir for Winterfell and the north.”

If the dwarf had a shred of decency he would have felt ashamed of himself for allowing that mummer’s farce of a wedding to take place at all. Surely the man had realised that he was not worthy of a bride such a Sansa Stark?

The urge to do something violent was rising within Stannis’ breast, but he suppressed it and listened.

“I tried to be kind to her,” Tyrion continued, his eyes sad. “And I never touched her, though I won’t try to deny that I was tempted.”

They both looked at Sansa. Jon was spinning her in circles, and she was smiling. _Beautiful._

“I would have understood if she had hated me. I would not have blamed her. But she was never cruel to me, despite what my family did to her. Not even after the Red Wedding. She was… she was a sweet child.”

Stannis swallowed. “Is there a point to this speech, Lord Lannister?”

Tyrion finished the rest of Jon’s ale and cocked his head to the side. “Your queen has very low expectations when it comes to husbands. Even you should be able to exceed them. _Smile._ ”

Before Stannis was able to come up with a response, the dwarf had left.

Stannis looked at Sansa again, and tried not to think about her expectations. The weight of them would add to the pressure he could already feel on his chest, and soon he would not be able to breathe.

And yet Stannis did breathe. It became easier when Sansa sat down again. She seemed calm and collected, and Stannis told himself that if she could appear calm, so could he. 

An hour went by, ale disappeared quickly from tankards all around, and eventually Stannis felt much like his own self again. His voice sounded strong and sure when the time came to stand and announce that he and his queen would be retiring for the night, and his palms barely felt clammy at all. He gave the gathered men his most intimidating glare, and hoped it would serve to keep anyone from attempting to suggest a bedding.

Unfortunately, there were a few drunken knights in the back of the feast hall that started to shout about the damnable ceremony.

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” Stannis said, his tone as final as he could make it. He was grudgingly pleased to note that the Hound was making his way over to the knights, a particularly menacing look on his already menacing features. Tormund and his band of wildlings were looking at one another and raising their eyebrows.

A few disappointed moans could be heard, but no one dared challenge his decision outright. Perhaps it was due to the Hound, and perhaps Jon’s dark expression and Ghost’s exposed teeth had something to do with it, too.

Lord Baelish shot Stannis an enigmatic look from his seat, his eyes glittering strangely.

Stannis ignored it all and led Sansa to the King’s Tower, feeling as if his heart was beating in his throat. 

Her hand seemed excessively small where she was holding onto the crook of his elbow.

The sound of the heavy wooden door of his chambers closing behind them was much louder than it should have been, and seemed to echo inside his skull.

It was time.


	35. The King's Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, kids. We're finally here. The wedding night is upon us! **Fair warning:** This chapter is from Sansa's POV. She's about to lie with a man for the first time since Ramsay, so she's obviously going to have brief memories of her time with him, though nothing graphic or excessive, we promise.

Sansa felt numb. 

She thought her heart would be racing, and that she would feel nervous, flustered and jumpy, but she just felt numb.

Her fingers looked very white, and her hands felt cold. She was staring down at them instead of looking at Stannis, postponing the moment when she would have to gather her strength and look him in the eyes.

“Are you well, Lady Sansa?” Stannis’ voice was low and concerned, and she found that despite her trepidation and her nerves, she quite liked the way he said her name.

She took a deep breath and looked at her new husband. He looked tense and worried. His brow was furrowed and his lips - easily visible now that his beard was close-cropped again - were set into a frown. He was standing very still, his body taut, his arms and hands stiff at his sides.

“I’m perfectly well,” she said, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “Thank you for asking.”

“Would you - er - would you like to sit down?” Stannis looked over at the table where Sansa supposed breakfast or other such light meals could be served. There were two chairs.

Though Stannis had obviously been given the finest chambers in the King’s Tower, Sansa could see that much of the furniture had seen better days. The wood of the table he had indicated was damaged, the cushions on the chairs threadbare. The velvet hangings of the four-poster bed that dominated the room were faded and dusty. Part of her wished they could just go to the bed and do what needed to be done, but a much larger part of her was grateful to delay the consummation for a little while longer. 

She nodded.

Stannis helped her sit down and took the other seat for himself. They stared at each other.

“Thank you for the dance,” Sansa eventually said, smiling weakly. Stannis was not a man of many social graces, so it had been challenging to poke and prod him into behaving in an acceptable way at the feast. She knew that many of the men had been fighting under Stannis for a long time, and were thus used to his dour manner, but certain courtesies were _expected_ from kings at weddings, and Sansa had seen the disapproving looks that many of the northern lords had been shooting Stannis when he had failed to look pleased with any of the food, the entertainment or even the gifts he and Sansa had been promised.

It had taken a lot of effort, but Sansa believed that she had managed to turn the general opinion more in Stannis’ favour by the time the evening had ended, and she was certain the dance she had been able to convince him to partake in had been vital. Most people would be inclined to think that a man who could be persuaded to dance couldn’t be _entirely_ dour, after all.

“I am not a very skilled dancer,” Stannis said, staring down at the table.

“It was lovely nonetheless.”

“I am not a skilled composer of letters, either.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She had not expected Stannis to bring the subject of the letter up again. He had seemed uncomfortable when she had mentioned it when they had been dancing.

True, it had not been the most beautifully written missive she had ever received, but there had been truth in it, and more warmth than she had ever seen from Stannis. She was certain that he had been trying to reach out to her, though it had been an awkward attempt.

“It was an honest letter, Your Grace. I appreciated it. I still do.”

Stannis made a small humming noise and fell silent. Sansa was silent, too.

“Would you like some wine?” Stannis suddenly asked. “I could call for wine.”

Sansa remembered the cup of wine she had thrown back before she had started to disrobe for Tyrion on her first wedding night, and shook her head. She did not think she needed any more wine.

“Water?” Stannis then offered, standing up to walk to a rickety sideboard where a pitcher of water and a few cups stood at the ready.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, hoping that the water might help her mouth and throat feel less dry.

Stannis sat back down and place two cups of lemon water on the table. They drank in silence for several minutes.

“If there is anything I can do or say,” Stannis said after a while, his words hesitant, “to put you at ease, I would have you tell me.”

Sansa squeezed her cup and closed her eyes for a moment. 

_Is there anything that could put me at ease?_ She wasn’t sure. She looked at Stannis and wondered what sort of response he had been hoping for. He was still looking very tense.

“I know you have been dreading this night,” he said, taking a large gulp of his water, “and I know I am too old for you, and not very comely. But I will do everything in my power to keep from hurting you, my lady.”

The pain of what Ramsay had done to her was still fresh in her memory. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on breathing slowly and evenly. 

“How?” she heard herself ask as if she were speaking from far away.

Stannis looked disconcerted by the question. His frown became more pronounced and the crease between his eyebrows deepened.

“We will take all the time you require,” he eventually said, “we have all night. There is no rush.”

Sansa felt herself blanch. _How many times does he intend to take me?_ Not even Ramsay had ever tormented her for a whole night.

Hopefully she had misunderstood him. “What do you mean?” she whispered. Her knuckles were turning white as she was squeezing her cup so tightly.

“There will be no… consummation,” Stannis began, looking awkwardly at her shoulder rather than meeting her eyes, “until you are adequately... prepared.” His face had now reddened considerably.

Sansa wished she didn’t understand what Stannis was talking about, but Ramsay had occasionally liked to torture her by forcing her body to produce the moisture that would make his invasion less physically painful. It had been torture because of the things he had said while he had raped her, words about how she was clearly enjoying it, how she had to want him because of the way her womanhood became slick enough to accommodate him.

Most of the time he had made do with making her bleed. 

“I understand,” she said, trying to push her memories of Ramsay aside.

When Stannis made no move to go the bed or towards her, Sansa started to wonder how he expected her to become ‘prepared’. Did he think it would happen on its own if he waited long enough?

_Surely not._

She searched his face, and found him staring at his cup, his face still red.

Strangely, seeing him look so awkward and embarrassed put her somewhat at ease. “Perhaps we should move to the bed, Your Grace?”

_He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me._

_Please, gods, don’t let him hurt me._

He stared at her for a long while, swallowing convulsively and hardly blinking.

“Yes,” he eventually croaked, getting to his feet with a distinct lack of grace.

He helped her to her feet and led her to the four-poster, and she felt her heart pound harder and harder the closer she got to the great featherbed.

“Do you - er - do you need assistance with your gown, or would you like me to turn around while you disrobe?” Stannis asked, clearing his throat.

Sansa could still remember how it had felt when Tyrion had stood and watched her take her dress off, drinking his wine and not stopping her until she was down to her shift. It not been pleasant. But worse had been having her dress torn off by Ramsay as Theon watched, or Ser Meryn stripping her before the court, or the rough hands of the peasants at the bread riots.

She swallowed hard. 

“If you don’t mind,” Sansa said in a quiet voice, “I would prefer it if you turned around and waited for a little while.”

Stannis clenched his jaw - Sansa could see the muscles working noticeably under his skin - and nodded curtly. He then turned and sat down at the table, his back to her.

Sansa took a silent deep breath, and tried to tell her racing heart to slow down.

It took her a few moments to work up the courage to start undressing, and once she began, she kept glancing at the back of Stannis’ crowned head, just to make sure he wasn’t looking.

She placed her own crown on a well-used chest of drawers near the bed, making sure it was not close to any edges so that it would not easily get knocked to the floor. She unpinned her hair and ran her fingers through the curls, wishing she had her brush with her. Her dress was easy to unlace, and came off with a soft whisper. She noticed Stannis’ back straighten a little where he sat at the sound. She removed every last article of clothing that she was wearing, even her stockings and her smallclothes. They were very fine - the finest she owned - and she did not want to risk them getting torn or damaged.

Feeling very exposed and chilled in her naked state, she hurried under the furs, drawing them modestly up to her chin, feeling a little comforted by the cover they provided. She felt calmer now that she had managed to undress. 

She observed Stannis closely, wondering if he had realised that she was already under the covers. He sat still and did not look, even though she waited for what must have been a full minute in complete silence.

“I’m ready,” she whispered at length, still watching her husband closely.

Stannis did not turn around. He got slowly to his feet, and neatly pushed the chair he had been sitting on into its proper place.

“Are you certain?” he asked, still not facing her.

“Yes,” she said, knowing that if she had said anything more, her voice would have been shaking.

Stannis began to undress where he stood. Sansa could not really see what he was doing with his hands, but she understood that he was unbuckling his sword belt. He placed the belt and the sheathed sword on the table. His crown followed. His ornate doublet came off next, and Sansa watched with interest as Stannis folded it over the back of the chair he had just vacated. Judging from the way his arms were moving, he then began to unbutton his shirt.

Eventually he was down to just his boots and breeches, and Sansa found it difficult to take her eyes off his bare back. There were scars. Not very many that she could see from a distance in a dimly lit bedchamber, but there were some that looked old and some that appeared quite new, though they looked adequately healed over. His back did not look at all flawed aside from the marks, however. There were no age spots, no excess fat, and no sagging skin. His muscles rippled faintly as he bent to remove his boots, and shadows danced over his pale form.

He turned around once his boots were off, but he didn’t meet her eyes as he approached the bed. To be fair, she wasn’t looking at his eyes, either.

Though she could tell that he was in severe need of a few square meals, it was still clear that Stannis had a warrior’s body. His shoulders were broad, and his arms looked very capable of swinging a sword. His muscles were not over large, but they were clearly defined and well developed under the wiry hairs that covered his chest and some of his abdomen. The hairs were mostly grey, but some were darker. 

He looked as hard as iron.

She was struck suddenly by the realisation that this was _real._ This was her true husband, and there would be no escaping him. Stannis would be the father of her children, and he would be the only man she would ever lie with like this from now and until one of them _died._

Breathing much more quickly than she should she tried to calm herself down. _I chose this._

When he started to unlace his breeches, Sansa hurriedly turned to lie on her side. She didn’t want to know whether he was aroused. She didn’t want to think about the part of him that would soon be invading her.

She stopped breathing for a moment when she felt the feather mattress dip and covers rustle on Stannis’ side of the bed, and stiffened up in anticipation of his touch. But as he remained on his side of the bed with a respectful distance between them, Sansa gradually started to relax. 

_He is not going to attack me,_ she told herself, concentrating on trying to breathe steadily and resisting the urge to flee.

Eventually she managed to convince herself to turn around and face him.

He was lying on his back, the bedclothes and furs covering him up to the middle of his chest, and he was staring resolutely at the canopy.

“Your Grace?” she whispered, her tone questioning.

He turned his head and looked at her. His gaze seemed to _burn._ “Yes?” he said, his voice low and hoarse.

“How do you - um - how do you intend to prepare me?” she asked, hesitant and more fearful than she would like to admit. Hopefully he would not be able to tell she was terrified. 

Stannis cleared his throat. “I had thought - I mean, I had considered… if you are willing, that we might kiss.” Even in the gloom of the partially enclosed four-poster it was easy to see that Stannis was flushed with embarrassment.

The knot of tension and fear in the pit of her stomach loosened a little. Kissing was something Ramsay had never had much patience for. She would not mind kissing. She was even a little _curious_ about kissing. It had always seemed like such a romantic, special thing to do with a man, and her heartbeat quickened at the thought of being able to try it with someone she did not loathe. She thought for a brief moment what it might be like to kiss Sandor, but pushed the thought from her mind. 

_Stannis is my husband._

Forcing her muscles to relax, she closed her eyes and angled her face in a way that she hoped was inviting. Stannis shifted to lie on his side as she was, and a heartbeat later she felt his fingers brush her cheek, and then his lips touch hers.

It was a longer kiss than the peck they had shared in the sept, and Stannis exerted a little more pressure than he had before. His fingers kept brushing her cheek, and she found the light touch to be surprisingly soothing.

His lips were dry and a little rough, and the close-cropped beard around his mouth was scratchy, but he was so very gentle that she found that she didn’t mind.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured hoarsely when he pulled back, gazing at her as he continued to stroke her cheek. He was looking at her like she was a length of the finest, most delicate Myrish lace, and that he was worried he would tear it or get it all smudged if he touched it.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t think what else to say. Being looked at like Stannis was looking at her felt incredibly odd. She had survived so much, been torn and mended so many times, that it seemed almost amusing that he thought she was something pristine that he could destroy if he was careless.

_I am much stronger than you think, my husband._

His breathing had become a little irregular, and he did not seem entirely sure what he should do now that he had kissed her.

Sansa was still afraid, but she knew they needed to keep going.

_I must continue to be strong, and I must be brave._

His uncertainty helped her feel calm, and soon she worked up the strength and the courage to kiss him back, wishing to show him that she did not object to more.

For a time they did nothing but press their lips together, again and again, listening to their own breathing and the fire in the hearth crackle and pop as it burnt through the wood. Their bodies were not touching, but as they kissed, they slowly began to move closer. Sansa wasn’t entirely sure whether it was Stannis who was coming closer to her, or whether she was unconsciously moving closer to him, but eventually she was near enough to him to feel the heat coming off his body in waves.

She didn’t know which one of them was the first to attempt to deepen their kisses. All she knew was that suddenly her lips were parted, and everything was warm and wet and a little strange as tongues licked and explored inexpertly.

Kissing like this was an utterly new experience for her, and it made her feel shockingly, _feverishly_ hot. But it was a strange sort of heat that didn’t make her want to cool off. She wanted _more._ Even though her skin was becoming tender due to the way his scratchy stubble was rubbing against her, even though her heart was beating so hard that she felt it might simply give out at any minute, and even though she was still afraid of what _more_ might entail -- she still wanted it.

She gasped when their chests suddenly touched, and Stannis immediately pulled away and stopped kissing her. He also took away the hand that had been stroking her face and neck.

“Are you well?” he asked, searching her face, his eyes full of worry.

Sansa swallowed and nodded. “I am.” She didn’t know whether she was pleased or displeased with him for pulling away. She wanted to keep kissing, but it was comforting to know that he was listening to her and paying attention to any sign of distress.

She moved closer to him and closed her eyes, hoping to show him that she wanted more kisses.

Sansa liked kisses.

Stannis obliged, and she felt his hand on her shoulder this time. His fingers were calloused, though not overly so - probably because he would always have had to wear gloves when he had held his sword at the Wall - and they felt pleasantly warm against her bare skin.

She decided to try reciprocating the touch, and brought her hand up to touch his shoulder. He tensed, but did not stop kissing her, and soon he had relaxed again. She explored his shoulder, and found that his skin was not nearly as soft as her own. She found a small scar, and she traced it with a fingertip, making him shiver. His response was exciting, and she wondered if she could make him shiver again. Her fingers travelled up towards his neck where she found the rough bristles of his beard. She explored the texture, and liked the sound she could create when she scratched her fingernails lightly against the rough, close-cropped hairs. She repeated the gentle scratching motion as her hand found the nape of his neck and the back of his head, enjoying the way the hairs she found there were much softer.

Stannis did more than shiver at that. He broke their kiss and _moaned._ It was a deep, masculine sound that seemed a lot louder than it probably was in the silent room.

Hearing him respond to her touch like that caused a familiar rush of warmth and moisture to pool low in her belly, and she couldn’t help the urge to press her thighs together tightly.

Everything happened very quickly after that. Stannis started to kiss her neck instead of her lips, making her let out a startled gasp and then a moan of her own. She decided to try it, too, and though the bristles on his neck were rough against her lips, it was worth it to kiss him there to hear more moans of pleasure fall from his lips. Somehow they ended up with their chests pressed together again, and this time Stannis didn’t pull away. Instead his hand found its way to the middle of her back where he pressed her gently to him, using the flat of his palm.

It was the most intimate hug she had ever shared with a man, and Sansa was surprised to feel a small jolt of pleasure when his chest pressed more firmly against the peaks of her breasts.

She froze when their lower bodies touched. She could feel his manhood: hot, heavy and large against her thigh.

“Lady Sansa? Are you well?” Stannis repeated his earlier question, his voice a very hoarse rasp, but she could still hear his concern.

“I’m not ready yet,” she whispered.

“Understood,” Stannis said, rubbing small circles with the hand that was still on her back.

After a little hesitation, they started to kiss again. She could feel his manhood, but as he was not trying to do anything with it, she eventually managed to ignore the hot press of it for the most part.

His hand moved slowly from her back to her arm, and after a while he parted his chest from hers and stole a glance down underneath the bedclothes at her breasts. She heard his breath hitch.

“Would it be - er - would it be acceptable if I - er…”

She had never heard him sound so flustered, and feeling curious, she decided to wait and see if he would ever be able to finish his question, even though she was fairly sure he was trying to ask for her leave to touch her breasts.

He cleared his throat and drew in a deep breath. “May I touch you here?” he finally managed, his fingers dipping under the covers and brushing against one of her breasts for a brief moment. He was searching her eyes, looking apprehensive.

Stannis Baratheon, the king who had led thousands of men to war against terrifying demons, looked _apprehensive._

“You may,” she breathed, even though she did not have any fond memories of having her breasts touched. 

She couldn’t stop herself from tensing up when his fingers brushed against the swell of her breast again, but she closed her eyes and focused on breathing.

_Stannis is not Ramsay. He is not Joffrey. He will not hurt me._

To her immense relief and pleasure, it was true. Stannis’ touch was not unpleasant in any way. He was gentle, and when he cupped her flesh it simply felt warm and rather intimate. The small groan that escaped him as he fondled her made more moisture gather between her thighs, and when his thumb brushed the nipple of the breast he was holding, she sighed at the lovely pulse of pleasure that ran through her.

Stannis urged her to move from her side and to her back, and because she understood that he wanted better access to her breasts she was eager to comply. He remained on his side next to her, and she could feel his manhood pressed against the outside of her thigh as he used his free hand to move back and forth between her breasts under the covers, cupping and fondling the soft flesh, and then brushing his fingertips over her nipples very lightly, causing them to stiffen.

Wave after wave of pleasure traveled through her, seeming to go directly from her nipples to her loins. She felt herself become wetter between her thighs with every touch, and soon she was moaning almost continuously to encourage him to keep touching her. She was feeling a sweet ache inside her that she had never felt before, and she wanted to lie like this and have him pet her for _hours_ so that she might continue to become familiar with it.

As time wore on, she heard Stannis’ breathing become more laboured, and she felt him press his manhood more firmly against her thigh, rubbing it against her slightly. The movements were so small that Sansa felt sure he was trying to remain still, but failing.

“Is there anything more I can do?” he eventually choked out. “To help you become ready?”

It took all the strength and willpower she had in her to speak her next words.

 _It will not be the same. He will not touch me the way Ramsay did. It will be different._ Nothing he had done so far had been anything like what Ramsay had done. 

“You could touch me here,” she whispered. She guided his hand until it was almost at her womanhood. She was not ready to trust Stannis fully, but if she offered him this and he was _gentle_ , he would pass an important test.

A very low, strangled sound escaped him, and his hand started to move the rest of the way to her centre. She could see the the bump it made under the soft furs, and for a moment she considered asking him to simply push the covers aside so that she would be able to observe what he was doing.

But without the covers he would be able to see all of her, and she wasn’t quite ready for that.

His fingers lingered in the thatch of wiry curls that grew on her mound, and she was surprised to find that it was rather pleasant to have him stroke her there. It made her blush, but it was definitely not uncomfortable. 

It took her a little while, but eventually she parted her thighs for him to indicate that he was welcome to venture lower. He didn’t accept the invitation immediately, and when he did start to move his hand, he did it very slowly and deliberately.

Her heart was racing, and she was breathing much too quickly -- both because of fear and excitement. Stannis, on the other hand, seemed to have stopped breathing entirely.

When she looked at his face, she could see that every muscle was tense, and that he was holding his breath as his fingers finally found her damp folds.

His exhalations sounded very loud when he finally started to breathe again, and she felt warm air hit her neck even as she felt his fingers slide around in the moisture she had produced.

Stannis had not found the place Ramsay had liked to rub to force her to feel those sharp, intense jolts of pleasure that had made her feel like her own body was betraying her, and Sansa wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to. Being touched there was just… overwhelming. She preferred what he was doing now, just stroking her gently and seeking out her entrance and circling it.

“It feels as if you might be ready,” he said, his voice very strained.

Sansa wasn’t sure if she was. But she knew she was most likely wet enough to accept him without feeling any pain, and she knew that it was this physical readiness that he was referring to.

“Can we - can we stay under the covers?” she requested, feeling that it would help her feel less vulnerable if he could not see her body as they coupled. “And - and could you face me?”

She did not want to be bent over and taken like a hound would take a bitch on _this_ wedding night.

“You want me to be on top of you?” Stannis asked, searching her eyes and speaking as if he were making sure he had understood her correctly. “You would not rather…” he trailed off, flushing a deep red.

She waited, feeling her heart rattle around inside her chest like a frightened bird inside a cage.

“It doesn’t matter,” he eventually said, clearing his throat. “I will do as you ask.”

“Thank you,” she said, kissing his lips once, and feeling relieved.

It was awkward, and there were some accidental jabs of elbows, but eventually Stannis was in position above her. He was not bearing down on her with his weight, however. He was supporting himself with his hands and knees, and his manhood was not touching her though her thighs were spread, and her knees were raised to make room for Stannis' body between her legs. The covers had slipped down his back, and because of the way he was holding himself it would be easy for him to see her breasts if he looked. He wasn’t looking, however. He was staring at her eyes, his face tense and his jaw working.

“Are you certain?” he ground out, his voice more strained than ever.

She nodded, feeling her heart pound and her blood rush in her ears.

_He won’t hurt me. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t. I won’t let him._

Slowly, he lowered his body and used one hand to steer his manhood to the proper place. It felt searing hot as it nudged her entrance, and surprisingly slippery. It almost felt as if he had already coated himself in her moisture, though she knew it couldn’t be.

She could see his face tense up until he was grimacing, and now that he was supporting most of the weight of his upper body on one hand, she could see his muscles bulge and tremble a little due to the effort.

When he started to press forward she closed her eyes and focused very hard on relaxing.

_He is not hurting me. He is consummating our marriage. If the gods see fit to bless us, he might even be about to put a son in my belly. It will be over soon._

He felt thicker than she had expected, but because she was quite slick, he slid forward without resistance. He moved slowly and steadily, working himself in little by little -- almost hesitantly.

She heard him make a very strange, strangled noise as he made his way deeper, and couldn’t resist the impulse to open her eyes and examine his face.

His lips were pressed together so tightly that the skin around them had turned a little white. Otherwise his face was bright red, and there was a thin film of sweat coating it. His grimace had become more pronounced, and she was sure she had never seen anyone tense every single muscle in their face quite the way he was.

With one last push and another strangled noise that seemed to emanate from his deep within his throat, he sheathed himself to the hilt. For a second his face seemed to smooth out completely, but Sansa almost thought she had imagined it because he tensed up again at once.

It did not feel unpleasant to have him inside of her. The sweet ache that had been building due to his kisses and his gentle caresses faded into a satisfied sort of hum. It was as if the ache had been waiting for her to be filled, and now that she was stretched and full, it was appeased.

She watched as Stannis drew in a sharp breath and held it, and wasn’t surprised when he started to move.

She _was_ surprised by how gentle the movement was, however. There was no violence to it. No forceful thrusting or snapping of his hips. No bruising hold on her breasts or thighs. It was just a very steady, controlled withdrawal, and then an equally controlled press forward. She could see him trembling with effort, and his brow was deeply furrowed; his eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

It was clearly very difficult for him to move so slowly, but he was doing it anyway.

Emotions that she could not name filled her and made her shiver and choke on the air she was trying to breathe. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her lungs started to burn. She tried to keep the sob from escaping, but she couldn’t help it.

Stannis stopped moving, and his eyes flew open. He stared down at her in an obvious panic. “Am I hurting you? Do you wish to stop?”

She couldn’t speak due to the uncontrollable outpour of emotion she was experiencing, so she just shook her head and wrapped her arms and legs around him to keep him in place.

She felt his manhood become less firm inside of her, and it caused another sob to escape. Stannis froze.

They stayed still while she tried to gain control of herself, but it took her several minutes, and her husband was almost too soft to stay inside her by the time she could speak.

“You aren’t hurting me,” she managed to say, “it’s good. I don’t know why I cried.”

Stannis looked at her like she was a little mad, and she tried to give him an encouraging smile.

“Could you kiss me?” she asked, wanting to help him get back on track. There would be no chance of a child if he didn’t finish.

He blinked at her, still looking very confused and worried, but did as she asked. She kissed him back with as much warmth as she could muster, hoping that he did not mind how wet her face was, and raked her fingernails over his scalp and down his back.

A low moan escaped him, and she felt him harden inside of her.

Their lips parted and Stannis rested his forehead against hers for a moment.

He started to move again.

His slow, measured thrusts did not hurt her at all, and this time she did not start crying. She kept stroking the back of his head and the part of his back that was not covered, her fingers sliding in his sweat.

She became aware of a musky scent as he continued to move within her, and instead of feeling disgusted by the sweat and the smell, she felt another pulse of warmth inside. Somehow it made her clench up, and Stannis hissed as he drew in a quick breath.

“Will it hurt you if I move a little faster?” he choked out, groaning more than speaking.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I will tell you if it’s too much.”

He grunted and began to speed up and use a little more force. It was still quite gentle compared to what she had experienced before.

Soon he had established a steady rhythm that felt lovely, and sometimes she felt a jolt of pleasure when his pubic bone ground against her. She felt herself produce more and more moisture at the pleasurable stimulation, and soon she could hear wet smacks every time he thrust his manhood to the hilt. The sounds made her blush, but Stannis was letting out more strangled noises, so either he liked the sounds, or he simply liked the way it felt.

It had not been a long time at all when his strangled noises turned into a prolonged groan, and his steady rhythm changed into erratic, slightly rougher thrusting. She was so wet now that it didn’t hurt at all, and she actually felt very good when he ended by pressing down on her with a bit more of his weight and grinding himself against her instead of thrusting in and out.

She had expected to feel an enormous sense of relief when he pulled out of her and rolled to the side, but instead she felt bereft, and a little… incomplete, somehow. Like she hadn’t _finished._

Stannis had certainly finished, however. She could feel his seed running out of her: wet, sticky and warm.

She sent a prayer to the gods for his seed to quicken, and tried not to think about the nightmares where Stannis burnt her for failing to give him a son.

She listened to her husband’s breathing become slow and even, and wondered if he was falling asleep.

Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep feeling sweaty, sticky and uncomfortable, she started to get up.

“Are you leaving?” Stannis asked with a frown. She wasn’t quite sure, but she thought he looked hurt.

Feeling glad that she was still covered by the furs, she went still. “No, I’m just going to go clean up a little.”

He seemed relieved. “And you will be back?”

“Yes,” she promised. It would start unfortunate gossip if she didn’t spend her whole wedding night in her husband’s bed.

But it wasn’t just the thought of the gossip that made her want to return to him.

A part of her liked the idea of sleeping next to Stannis. She had never slept next to Tyrion or Ramsay - nor had she wanted to - but as a little girl she had often wondered what it might be like to sleep next to the strong husband of her dreams and feel his arms around her in the night.

Perhaps now she would finally find out.

Stannis might not be what she had dreamt of as a little girl, and he had not fully earned her trust, but he had shown her that he was not the monster Ramsay had been.

Her father’s words echoed in her memory, causing her breathing to hitch. _”When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who is worthy of you. Someone who is brave and gentle and strong.”_

She was old enough and experienced enough now to understand that the qualities her father had spoken of - bravery, gentleness and strength - were so much more important than crowns, golden hair or youthful good looks.

Would her father have approved of her match with Stannis? Would he have considered Stannis to be brave and gentle and strong? He was brave enough, no question. And he appeared strong. _But there is little gentleness in him,_ she thought, and her heart grew heavy in her chest.

Still, she had reason to hope. Tonight he had proven that though there might be little of it, there was some gentleness to be found. He had been a more careful lover than she had expected.

Stannis was asleep by the time she returned to bed, and Sansa spent a little time observing him while he was actually relaxed for once. He looked younger without his furrowed brow and his scowl, though she could still see the lines etched into his skin.

 _Does he ever smile?_ she wondered, searching his face for traces of laugh lines without much success.

She made herself comfortable after she had her fill of examining him, resting her head on a feather pillow with a soft sigh.

Her body felt as heavy as her heart, and her loins ached in a way they never had before. It was almost… pleasant.

Sansa fell asleep to thoughts of her mother and father, her memories of them both comforting and saddening her.


	36. Kingsguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is. The end of the story ... for now. Thanks so much to all our readers for their support and encouragement! We will be continuing the tale in sequel, the Queen of Hearts.

It was early. Sansa could tell it was early because there was no light trying to sneak its way through the bed hangings.

Stannis had woken her up with his movements. He was sitting up.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“It’s dawn,” Stannis said, speaking as if this explained everything.

 _Dawn?_ “Do you have somewhere to be?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

“I must prepare for the journey south.”

Sansa buried her face in her pillow. “No,” she said.

“No?”

She turned her head to face him. “It will give the wrong impression if you do not spend at least part of the morning with me.”

Stannis stopped moving. He had been making himself likely to push the bed hangings aside and leave the warmth of their covers behind, but her words seemed to have reached him.

“Stay,” she said, “sleep a little longer.”

Stannis didn’t seem entirely pleased with her requests, but to her surprise he got on his back without another word and closed his eyes.

Relieved beyond belief, Sansa let her own eyelids drift shut. She was so _tired._

***

Sansa and Laoren were packing Sansa’s trunks when the knock came.

It was Petyr.

“I beg your pardon, ladies,” he said, bowing respectfully, “but I was hoping for an audience with Her Grace. As her uncle by marriage, I wished to offer my congratulations in person, both for myself and on behalf of her cousin Lord Arryn.”

Laoren shot Sansa a nervous look but didn’t say anything. Sansa gave the maid a tight smile. 

“Perhaps you could go see if my laundry is ready while Petyr and I go for a walk?” Sansa suggested, careful to keep her face blank. She could not invite Petyr to speak to her in her chambers. It was not proper.

Petyr had made no effort to speak to her privately before the wedding, as she had half expected. He would be coming south with the court, such as it was. It was strange to have him come to her now, like this, in the flurry of preparations for departure. _What does he want?_

Initially, it seemed, Petyr did not want anything. He took her arm, and talked of inconsequential things as they strolled through the castle. People bowed as they passed. 

_I am Queen._ It was such a strange thought. But she was pleased to see smiles on every face they met. _In time, I can make them love me. But I have much work to do._

“You have done well, sweetling,” he said, echoing her thoughts. 

They were on the battlements. There was nobody within earshot. Sansa took a nervous breath, and turned to face Petyr. 

The cold eyes she met were those of Littlefinger. 

Sansa felt herself freeze. 

“I hope your wedding night was not too unpleasant,” he continued. “I never feared he would harm you, of course. I know Stannis Baratheon, and it is not in his nature. But I did worry that you would find the experience difficult after your last marriage.”

“No. No, he … I … he didn’t hurt me.” She shook her head, and put up a cautionary hand. “Petyr, I will not be drawn back into your schemes. I am wed now, and Queen of Westeros.”

“Oh Sansa. I’m disappointed in you.” He smiled. “I am delighted. Things worked out perfectly.”

“You wanted this to happen?” Sansa furrowed her brow. “But … why?”

“Sweetling. I told you, a long time ago, what I wanted.” 

Sansa stared at him in slowly dawning horror. It felt like ice water was pouring into her guts. 

_”Every time I'm faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me on the Iron Throne and you by my side.”_

She saw it suddenly, with blinding clarity. Petyr had power. He had gold. He had armies. He had allies. The one thing he didn’t have was a claim to throne. Stannis had the claim. Sansa’s _sons_ would have the claim.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “How?”

“Oh, with a great deal of effort, I assure you. Of course, you had to believe I was opposed to this marriage. After my mistake with Ramsey, I knew you would never trust me the same way again. This time, I had to manage things far more subtly. Arranging for Stannis to walk in on you bathing … that alone took days and I cannot tell you how many failed attempts.” Littlefinger’s face was light, his posture buoyant, his lips twisted in an smirk of amusement. “And of course I took every opportunity to comment on your beauty and to suggest that he was unworthy of you. For most men, one could count on your abundant charms to speak for themselves, but this is Stannis Baratheon we are talking about. One does rather have to beat him over the head with an idea to get it into his thick skull.” He spread his hands, and shrugged. “Of course, once I reached the Wall, then the real work began. Things could not have worked out better. Well, aside from my injury, but one must take risks to achieve results.”

Sansa stared at him. “The fight where you were injured … the wights … you let them in. The Vale men -- your men -- and the Northerners were fighting. You let the wights into Castle Black.” 

_It created a crisis. Jon wrote to me … and I provided the solution._

Petyr beamed.

“I thought you were studying how to raise the dead,” Sansa said, her voice shaking. 

“Oh, I was. The Night’s King had to be defeated and knowledge was key to that. Besides, it was all very interesting … and the thought of Varys’ face should I show up with an army of the dead gave me great amusement. But I am no magic wielder, nor do I have the years to devote to the study that it would require. I learned enough to make my gamble with the wights. That was enough -- I had thought your brother or maybe Stannis would be the one to see the betrothal solution, but--” 

“I walked into your trap.”

He tilted his head. “Do not be angry with yourself, Sansa. You have been by far the player most difficult to manipulate: the most intelligent, the most innovative actor in this little drama. Your brother and your husband were simple enough to manage, but you kept me on my toes.”

Sansa shook her head. “Not enough.” _I should have seen it. Why didn’t I see it? But … what could I have done differently?_ Then another thought struck her, and she nearly fell. “Daenerys?”

“Entirely the author of her own end,” Petyr shrugged. “She had to go, of course. I had numerous plans to encourage her inclinations to heroism, but they proved unnecessary. I’m sure Lord Varys must be quite peeved. I look forward to our next meeting.” He pursed his lips. “I am concerned about the master of whisperers, though. He’s lost his best piece, but not the game. And Cersei Lannister is a dangerous woman. There are miles to go, sweetling.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she demanded. “Do you want to gloat over what a fool I have been?”

“No!” He looked stung, and suddenly there was genuine passion in his voice. “I want you to understand that I am not your enemy!” He took a breath. “I made a terrible mistake with Ramsey. I grew arrogant and careless, and you paid the price. I know that I still have far to go to regain your trust. I know that you fear me and my schemes -- but know this, too. I have given you your home back. I have made you a Queen. I will give you all of Westeros, Sansa. Most of all, I will protect you, always, you and your children. And I will ask nothing in return.”

“But there is a price. There is always a price.”

“Sansa, give me the chance to make up for my mistakes. I do not wish to possess you. I would never ask to share your bed unless you wished it. I want your love, yes, I admit it, but only given by your own will. I want you to be by my side, my equal, my companion.” He moved as it to take her hand, but stopped himself. “We understand each other, you and I.” 

Sansa stepped back. “All I want is peace. I do not want to be part of your schemes.”

“Not now, no.” His voice was confident. “But there will come a time. Your marriage to Stannis is not destined for happiness. There is no joy in him. He does not tolerate the things you love -- music, art, beauty, celebration. He is jealous, petty, controlling. You will wither away in this marriage.”

“It can work,” Sansa said. “He is not all bad.” She thought of his hand on her cheek as he kissed her, the way he had listened to her this morning when she had asked him to stay… _There is goodness in him._

“No,” said Petyr. His voice was calm, certain. Oh, I am sure he regrets the deaths of his daughter, brother, and childhood Maester. And the chain of events that lead to Selyse Baratheon taking her own life.” He looked at Sansa. “Did you know how your predecessor died, before now?” 

Sansa stared at him in mute horror. 

“Not many do, but I was able to piece the tale together. She hung herself outside the walls of Winterfell, after she watched her daughter burned alive.”

Sansa stepped back. She shook her head. “But … but … you can’t know what led …”

“Please, Sansa. I knew Selyse for fifteen years. I thought she might prove useful to me at some point, so I took care to remain on cordial terms. She used to talk to me about her problems, ask for advice, so on. I never did find any use for the connection, but it was no trouble to maintain. I never minded her appearances at my door.” He looked off into the distance. “I saw what life with Stannis did to Selyse. I would not have that happen to you.”

“I do not want him dead,” Sansa said. “I have sworn … I do not want blood on my hands. I do not want this.” 

Littlefinger smiled. “Just think on what I have said. That is all I ask.” He bowed his head, and stepped back. “My Queen,” he breathed. 

Sansa stood frozen, long after he was gone. Many looked up at her standing there. All the faces were smiling. But who could she trust?

_I am Stannis’ wife. Wedded and bedded, crowned Queen of Westeros. There is no turning back from that. I thought it was my own choice, but I have been manipulated and played from the beginning._

_I cannot tell Stannis. Who knows what he would think, what he would do? Would he think I was part of the plan? Or would he turn on Littlefinger? Stannis cannot afford a war with the Vale, not now. And I cannot go to Jon -- that would be near as bad as going to Stannis himself. Jon is a good man, but there is no subtlety in him._

_What if Petyr is right? What if I do need him? I … and my children?_

_I have wed a man who burned his daughter at the stake._

_I am so tired, and so afraid._ For a moment she wavered, and had to put her hand on the battlement stones for support. The vision of Petyr’s green eyes hung before her, all of their cleverness and obsession. _I could give into that,_ she thought. _He and I, together, playing the Game of Thrones. I could let him protect me, learn from him, be by his side, just as he wants. I could become like him. Let him destroy my enemies, grant me my freedom. Perhaps turn on him, in time, if I had to. If he became a threat to my sons. I could become Queen Regnant, and answer to no-one._

The vision hung in front of her for a moment, and then it faded, to be replaced by softer, sadder eyes, a scratchy chin, a lock of unruly hair hanging over a creased forehead. Sansa bit back a sob. _Father. What would my father think?_

_I cannot become such a thing._

She only had one place to go. One person left to turn to. One move on the board.

She could do it now if she was quick… if he was where she suspected he was…

Her mind made up and her heart beating much too fast, Sansa gathered her skirts and started to walk as quickly as her feet would take her.

She almost sagged with relief when she made it to the secluded den where Sandor had taken to hiding when he wasn’t busy with the members of the Night’s Watch.

“Sandor,” she said, giving him her first genuine smile of the day. “I’m so glad I found you.”

Sandor looked around, and though his expression remained impassive, something in his eyes lightened.

“Little bird.”

Her smile faded as her worries consumed her again, and she looked around to make sure the corridor outside the den was abandoned.

“Come with me,” she said, leading Sandor back along the dark passages to the door of her chambers. _Propriety be damned._

Sandor stiffened up, but after a moment of silence he nodded and followed her.

Once they were inside her chambers, Sandor frowned. “Is this wise?” he muttered, looking around at her half-packed belongings.

“Petyr wanted me to wed Stannis,” Sansa blurted out, ignoring Sandor’s question. “He’s _pleased._ ”

Sandor’s frown deepened. “How do you know this?”

“He came to speak to me,” Sansa explained, pacing around and wringing her hands. “Believe me, this is what he wants.”

“Strange,” Sandor muttered. “I thought the little fucker wanted you for himself.”

Sansa threw him an irritated glare for the profanity, but her heart wasn’t in it. “He does. He wants me to be his queen. He told me, back at Winterfell, after the battle.”

Sansa hadn’t shared this piece of knowledge with anyone else. Not even Jon. But Jon didn’t understand Petyr the way she and Sandor did. He hadn’t been in King’s Landing. He didn’t _know._

“He intends to kill Stannis?” Sandor suggested, scratching his beard.

“Yes. Eventually.”

Their eyes met, and Sansa saw how Sandor was thinking, putting the pieces together.

“He intends to wait, doesn’t he?” Sandor said, looking searchingly at her. “He won’t be able to do anything until you - “ he grimaced, “- until you have a baby?” 

Sansa gave a jerky nod and walked over to the nearest chair. She sat down slowly, deliberately.

“And I have to give Stannis an heir,” she whispered, visions of herself being burnt at the stake for failing to birth a son dancing in front of her eyes. “Our son will be the King of the Seven Kingdoms. He will unite the north and south once more.”

“Fine.” Sandor was still grimacing. “Does it really matter if Littlefinger kills Stannis after you… give him an heir? He’s already been dead. By rights he should still be dead.”

Sansa glared at Sandor. “And my brother? Should he be dead, too?”

“Fuck. I didn’t mean -”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa sighed, her anger draining away. “What matters is that I don’t want Littlefinger to kill anyone. Especially not King Stannis.”

Sandor crossed his arms over his chest and _scowled._ “You care about him?”

Sansa’s stomach flipped over at the question, Petyr’s words about Selyse… about how Sansa would surely wither away with Stannis echoed in her mind. But she thought, too, of how considerate her husband had been last night. _He is not a gentle man, but he is a man who tries to be gentle when he understands the need._ “It doesn’t matter,” she said again, exhaling a long exasperated breath. “If Stannis dies after I give him an heir, Littlefinger will try to force me to wed him, and I don’t want that. I don’t know how, but he will find a way. Pressure me, threaten me, I don’t know. And I don’t want it.”

“No?” Sandor asked, his voice rough. “How would it be any different? You’d be stuck with one old man instead of another.”

Sansa straightened her spine and looked Sandor straight in the eyes. The defiant, stubborn look on his face faded as she stared him down.

“It would be different,” she said, her voice soft. “Sandor, please. You were right about Littlefinger, and I think … I need your help -- to protect Stannis.”

“That’s not my fucking responsibility!”

“Is it not? Back at Winterfell, you said you had your reasons for going into that clearing -- going into the fire.”

He jerked back. “Little bird …” The warning in Sandor’s voice was plain.

“I didn’t see it then. You are brave, and you can be kind under all that bluster. But when you saved Stannis, it was more than that, wasn’t it?”

Sandor looked away. Sansa pressed on, relentless.

“Kingsguard,” she said. The word dropped into a deep silence between them. “You swore an oath to defend the King with all your strength, to give your blood for him, to die for him if need be.”

“That was to Joffrey.” 

“Yes, but you swore it, swore a solemn vow by the all the Seven. Stannis is the rightful king, now. Your oath stands, Sandor Clegane. Your King needs you. … _I_ need you.” 

Sandor stared at her, his face ashen. Rebellion was clear in his eyes. Then he dropped his gaze. 

“Fucking hells, little bird. Do you know what you’re asking of me?”

“I do.”

He looked her in the face, and then his head bowed. “My Queen.” He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke. “My oath stands.”

 _”I am no knight,”_ Sandor had once said to her. _He’s wrong,_ Sansa thought, her heart swelling.

They were silent for several beats, until Sansa remembered that Sandor could not be discovered inside her chambers. Laoren could be back at any moment.

“You must go,” she said, standing up.

Sandor shifted from foot to foot and cast a furtive look at Sansa’s four-poster. He had thus far been ignoring it, so it was a very noticeable glance.

“You can’t stay here,” she added, feeling herself blush as she imagined what Sandor might be thinking about. “It isn’t proper.”

“I know,” Sandor grunted, “I’ll go.”

She walked him to the door, and their eyes met for a long moment.

Sansa wanted to say something, but she couldn’t find the words. Sandor did not seem to know what to say, either.

After Sandor had gone, Sansa stood still and tried to organise her thoughts. The brief surge of heat Sandor’s presence had encouraged within her seemed like a dream: unreal and impossible to cling to. She felt cold, and more than a little nauseated.

_Why didn’t I see it?_

_Why?_

Her shoulders started to shake.

_Don’t._

She couldn’t stop it. Her vision blurred, and her breaths kept hitching in her throat.

It hurt to think that the choice she had made - the choice to wed Stannis for the sake of the realm - had somehow been orchestrated by Littlefinger.

_Will I never be free of him? Will I never be free at all?_

She wanted to be strong. She wanted to plan her next move and keep her eyes dry. But she couldn’t. It was too much.

A single sob escaped her before she clamped her hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.

_Not here._

She moved to her bed and buried her face in her pillow in an attempt to keep quiet. She didn’t want anyone to hear.

She cried for a long time, and though it hurt her throat and made her eyes puff up and her nose run, it felt good to release her pent up worries and fears.

When her tears ran dry, Sansa felt more at peace.

There was nothing she could do about Petyr’s plan at the moment. All she could do was go on with her life and keep a close eye on him. At least she had Sandor, and that thought comforted her.

And perhaps… perhaps she would be able to tell Stannis about it all. Once she was sure she could trust him. 

For now, all she could do was … breathe.


End file.
